


Burning Bright: Answers in the Dark

by keiliss



Series: Burning Bright [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M, Family, Imladris, Lothlórien, M/M, Mithlond, Númenor, Politics, Second Age, personal agendas, war in Eregion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Galadriel goes to Lórien, Erestor visits Númenor, Elrond is under siege in a valley somewhere in the Misty Mountains, and Glorfindel doesn't get to go anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Directions

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter revised to fix gaping plot hole!
> 
> Sequels are a new experience for me. I've tried not to repeat whole portions of book one, just give enough information for this to stand alone. I hope I got the balance right, but if something's not clear, please ask. 
> 
> Timeline: around S.A 1698/1699
> 
> Link to Book 1, [Burning Bright: The Road](http://archiveofourown.org/works/384752/chapters/629927)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor meets new people, Elrond has something to show Celeborn.

_South Mithlond_  

When spring arrived in Mithlond, it was little more than an extension of winter, cold and windy with shoals of rain that painted sky and sea in uniform shades of grey. The southern haven looked older and more Telerin than usual to Erestor as he crossed the creaking plank from the ferry, the wind whipping at his clothes and hair. He was dressed for rain and carried a well-wrapped parcel close to his chest, the result of several weeks’ labour for himself and a handful of scribes.

The idea to send a record overseas of events since the War of Wrath was born over dwarf brandy at the Repentant Owl, and much to his and Arvarad’s surprise Gil-galad authorised it without a murmur.  To Arvarad’s further amazement, Erestor offered to oversee the work and do his part as a copyist. It was a long time since he had worked as a scribe, but it suited his mood; he needed to keep busy. The collection he carried was only a small part of the consignment that would leave for Tol Eressëa on the first ship of the sailing season. The records would compete for space with the baggage; there was a long waiting list for berths to travel into the West this year, a fact that surprised no one.

He had made several of these trips across the strait in recent weeks. There was the usual activity to be expected when one of the westbound ships was being made ready, but this time there was something far more interesting further along the dock: a tall vessel of foreign design, flying the colours of Númenor. He slowed down to stare, promising himself a closer look when he left. He was surprised he had not heard there were visitors from the island nation, but he had been so busy organising the compilation that there had been little time for palace gossip.

The thought brought a wry smile to his lips. In the old days, before Ost-in-Edhil, few things had been more important than gossip, the source of all manner of intriguing information and opportunities. He considered, not for the first time, that he was in danger of turning into the dedicated scholar he had pretended to be during his years in Eregion, sent there by Gil-galad to gather information about Celebrimbor and his mysterious guest, the smith Annatar

He had come home determined to leave the Eregion mission firmly in the past, especially anything that had to do with Annatar. Only the musician, Lindir, knew even the broadest outline of that experience, purely because their journey across Eriador, carrying two of Celebrimbor's rings of power to safety, had led to the sharing of some unplanned confidences.  Erestor had demanded a promise of silence, both about that and an incident on the road with one of the Avari, which Lindir had given reluctantly, with dire predictions that his secrecy would come back to bite him.

His final report to Gil-galad and his war leaders was preceded by a string of nightmares from which he woke cold and sweating, his heart thudding, After a shatteringly real dream of his first night with Annatar, he had begun to accept that silence, the antithesis of his training and experience, was neither answer nor refuge. And he knew Lindir was right: better that he should explain it in his own way than have to counter someone else's version of what passed for the truth.

He managed a few hurried words with Arvarad before they began, and at the end he was invited to remain behind when the councillors were dismissed. While three pairs of eyes watched curiously, he took a deep breath and steeled himself to tell Círdan, Arvarad and his king a carefully edited version of his encounter with the Giver of Gifts. 

Gil-galad heard him out frowning. “You’re sure you didn’t tell him anything valuable? Military posts in the passes, crossing protocol...?”

“I had nothing to tell,” Erestor reminded him, “not unless you were all asleep here while I was gone. I’d left decades before, and those are things that change regularly, except the main entry points and anyone could have described them.”

“True enough.” Círdan had looked thoughtful, a thumb stroking the dark silver hair along his chin.  Erestor in no way found the Shore Lord sexually attractive, but not for the first time he wondered if the hair was soft or rough to the touch. “He asked nothing about the harbour?”

Erestor shook his head. “Nothing specific, my lord, no. And once again, that’s information he could have from anyone who has spent time here. It’s no secret this is the haven from which we sail West...  But no, I said nothing. We talked about history, about the laws and customs of Lindon, about my personal impressions of people I knew here. Nothing more.”

Arvarad said nothing, his face bland, and asked no questions later, which suggested to Erestor that his old friend guessed that time spent with Celebrimbor’s guest might have involved more than conversations about the history of the Vanyar.  His silence implied this was Erestor’s business and nothing Arvarad had any wish to dabble in. Erestor, still eaten up with guilt at his casual sharing of everyone – especially Gil-galad’s - personal foibles and weak points, had felt almost embarrassingly grateful.

Gil-galad himself gave him a few searching looks but like Arvarad had asked no questions. Unlike Arvarad, with the unconscious arrogance of royalty, he probably assumed Erestor would share whatever he was keeping back when he was ready.  For someone who normally liked to have things done ‘now’, Lindon’s king was surprising good at biding his time.

Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the nightmare about Annatar was the last. He had no more, as though they had served their purpose, but he was left feeling disconnected from the world and strangely hollow. As time passed the feeling of isolation grew rather than receding as might be expected. Daily it became harder to imagine reaching out and confiding in anyone.

About Badger, the dark elf who had died on Erestor’s dagger near the river crossing into Lindon, he said not a word.  In his head he knew Lindir’s practical rationality was right; there had been no other choice and getting the harp with the concealed rings to Mithlond was worth the cost of the one life that had threatened it, but until his heart accepted this and the sense of doom that shivered his skin every time he thought of it withdrew, the truth could wait. Anyhow, they exiled Kinslayers.

Coming back to the present, he was startled to find himself half way up the Academy steps. He took the last few briskly as though to shake off the memories, and announced his business, fully expecting to be directed once again to Galdor. Círdan had been absent during his last few visits, which meant he had handed the parcel over, done the paperwork, stopped to say hello to Círdan’s lady, Maeriel, and taken the next ferry home. Instead he was told to go through, the Shipwright was home and expecting him.

Círdan was in his office, a light, airy room with a view of the harbour. After the usual greetings, he took the package without much curiosity except to ascertain, for storage purposes, how much more he should expect before the departure date. Erestor, in the act of filling out a despatch form, rolled his eyes ruefully and shook his head. “Several boxes I imagine, though my aching fingers sincerely hope these were my last contribution. There’s some original items of course, but most is copy work and it’s a long time since my scribing days.”

Círdan nodded absently, putting the parcel aside and sitting back in his chair. “Now that you have the leisure, you’ll join us for dinner tonight, I hope?”

Alarm bells sounded. Erestor had worked as Círdan’s clerk and been part of his household on Balar. He got along well enough with his former lord, but this did not have the sound of a casual dinner invitation. “Is it a special occasion? I was planning an early night, all this dressing up and socialising is more work than I remembered.”

He had taken rooms in the palace where he could avoid the sharp eyes of Círdan’s lady and hide from Gil-galad behind a degree of formality not to be found in the south of Mithlond. The price for this choice involved a good deal of compulsory social interaction, most of which he would have been happy to avoid.

“Special enough. We have guests from Númenor for a few days. They need a ship overhaul before going down the coast to Lond Daer. Ereinion wants a chance to break bread with the captain, and dinner here would be smaller and less formal than at the palace.”

Easier to talk, he meant.

“I saw the ship on my way in. I planned a closer look when I left. There’s damage?”

“Quite a bit, yes though so far he’s shy on the details. They’re proud of their ship building and in no hurry to admit to design flaws. At any rate, Ereinion thought it might be useful to extend the captain some hospitality. We have a mutual aid treaty, something they seem to have forgotten lately.”

“It’s been a while since Aldarion by their reckoning,” Erestor said. “Several generations, at the least.”

Círdan steepled his fingers and looked pensively out the window. “Even so, yes. Too long. They need a reminder. You have firsthand knowledge of what we face here. I thought it might be useful if you came along and exercised your skill for small talk.”

 

_Eriador_  

The meeting place was a hillside cave, its secrecy assured by heavy undergrowth and almost enough trees to be called a wood. Elrond brought only Tûriel and Angion, leaving Caedion in charge in his absence. Celeborn had perhaps two dozen warriors with him, or slightly more. Security was good and despite their efforts at stealth, they were picked up long before they reached the cave. His companions were embarrassed to be so easily marked, but the quiet shadows that kept pace with them reminded him of his childhood on the move with Maglor. It made him feel almost secure for the first time since he and the prince had parted company weeks ago.

Celeborn was nowhere to be seen, but they were greeted with courtesy. Tûriel and Angion took charge of the horses and their meagre packs, while Elrond was shown to a heap of furs and invited to wait there. Food was brought to him and he ate, making each mouthful count. Elrond had no idea how they could bake with Sauron’s easterners rampaging across the countryside, but they had bread and it was fresh. They also had fruit and dried, salted meat to chew on, and something that might possibly pass for brandy. After the first mouthful he decided not to ask for details.There was little talking. Around him Celeborn’s men were gathered in quiet tiredness, eating the same carefully measured ration, another thing that reminded him of the past.

The cave was clean and functional, possibly used for storage in happier times. As the light faded lanterns were lit, but there was no fire, nothing that might give away their position. The lamps made the cave a tapestry of light and shadow, sinking some corners into gloom while bringing others into view. For the first time he saw two men lying on pallets in a corner well away from the entrance, clearly wounded. Sipping his brandy, he was wondering if he should offer his services as a healer, and to whom, when Celeborn finally arrived.

Nothing changed outwardly in the cave, but the atmosphere seemed to lift. Men looked less tired, more alert. Celeborn stopped briefly to talk with someone, clasped another’s arm in passing, then came over to join Elrond. “Sorry. Star-rise is my personal time. You’ve had enough to eat?” He sat as he spoke, folding down like a great cat, his silver hair shimmering in the lamplight.

“More than I’m used to, thanks. And the bread’s a luxury. Those two over there – they’re wounded? Do you have a healer? If not I can take a look?”

Celeborn looked amused. “No, we have a healer, a Nandor wise woman skilled in herbs and broken bones who’d be offended to the core if she thought I’d lost faith in her art. Neither of them is seriously hurt, but hard riding is out of the question right now. As for the bread – that was a stroke of luck. They’d burnt out a farm, and the fire was still smouldering when we arrived. They did a bad job of looting, so we found enough grain to grind and bake before we left. Roast mutton would have been good, there were dead sheep everywhere and it’s a while since we saw red meat, but the smell would have brought orcs out in daylight. Your people are all right for food?”

Elrond nodded as someone came over to give Celeborn a thick slice of bread spread with honey and a bowl of berries. “Not as well as this, but we’re surviving. For a while there were only roots and berries and it’s not easy foraging with a tail of refugees, but things are better now.”

“You’re taking them under your wing, yes? People have been scattered all across… Eregion.” He hesitated on the name, and Elrond wondered what this part of the world had been called in his youth. Glorfindel might have known.

“Someone has to. And I’ve found somewhere. A haven of sorts.”

The prince looked up sharply and the lamp caught the starlit glitter of his eyes. “A haven?”

“Yes, by chance more than design. We had to run from one of their patrols - not easy with so many on foot. Anyhow, we reached a place where the land drops away without warning, last thing you’d expect. We could hear a river below, but there was nothing to see, just treetops. Then one of the women went searching for a private place to answer nature’s call and looked down and saw...”

He stopped, recalling his first sight of the land below the trees, hidden between the mountains. Celeborn waited, not interrupting. “All you can see from above is a ravine lined with trees and glimpses of the river. But there’s land set against the cliff, and further down the gorge opens into a valley, a bit like a bowl surrounded by walls of solid rock. It’s safe there, easy to defend. The only entrance we’ve found so far is on the mountain side, a gap through solid rock. It took us days of searching. The Nandor think there was a stream once. There’s deer down there and even a few boar, nuts, berries – and the earth’s good, it could be planted.”

Celeborn was frowning. “You’re thinking of settling it? Now?”

“Not as a first priority, no,” Elrond said hurriedly. “But the goal is to keep the enemy this side of the Ered Luin and give Ereinion time to prepare for war, right? Well, I have refugees whose numbers already run into the hundreds to protect, and I need a safe place to leave them. This is a defensible stronghold, somewhere our wounded could also recuperate without the need for extra warriors to protect them.”

Celeborn, drinking his brandy as though it was no more potent than watered wine, looked interested at this. “So – a healing post and housing for civilians? I’ve heard worse ideas. You say it’s difficult to reach?”

“We found a few places where you could climb down using ropes, but all in plain sight. I left them blocking off everything but the entrance we used. I have men exploring the valley to look for weak points too. The access is steep but it’s possible to get a wounded man down. A horse can manage if dismounted and led, though I’d not try riding, the surface is too loose.”

“You’re taking this seriously,” Celeborn observed. “You see it as a command centre perhaps? Somewhere to plan your operations from?”

“There’s precious little planning involved right now,” Elrond said wryly. “They find us, we fight back. I have what men I can spare divided into small groups, not a single, ponderous armed force, so they can strike and run, take on what they can handle, kill where it’s plausible. Anything that keeps Sauron’s army too busy to regroup and aim for Lindon.”

Celeborn nodded. “Much the same as we’re doing. Their discipline is shaky, and it works to our advantage. All their leaders have in common is an allegiance to their Overlord and distrust for one another. They’ll keep splitting off into groups to pillage and burn while there’s anything left resembling loot. Only those under Sauron’s direct command stand united.”

“Through a common fear, yes,” Elrond agreed. “And that’s why it’d be good to have a central point to launch attacks from. While they’re spread out like this, it’s harder for them to compare notes and track us down.”

“I’m just concerned by how much time and energy you’d invest in making your valley inaccessible,” Celeborn said. “Experience tells me the greatest safety lies in staying on the move. The best protected stronghold can be overcome.”

Doriath, Nargothrond, Gondolin... “Possibly,” Elrond conceded at last, risking a little more of the brandy. “But there’s more to it than a temporary shelter. Think of the numbers Sauron has raised and the risk to Lindon --- Ereinion wouldn’t take the sea road if the worst happened, Celeborn. He’s like your wife there, determined. It’s in the blood.”

“That road is closed to Galadriel,” Celeborn replied evenly. “Which makes her even more stubborn. But no, I do not see him sailing should the worst happen. He’s another Fingolfin, he’d die with sword in hand.”

_Blinding light behind his eyes, the ice chill of foresight, something calling, keening, from long away...._ Elrond shook it off, gritted his teeth against it, not wanting to know. Not here, not now. Maybe not ever. “Or keep fighting from another vantage point, should the mountains not prove enough of a barrier,” he said, and his voice barely shook. He was slowly learning to rein in Melian’s gift. “A fortress at the bottom of a ravine, hidden within the foothills of the Hithaeglir could make an invincible refuge for a king.”

They fell silent, the lamp throwing a golden haze about them. “I should know foresight when I see it by now,” Celeborn said finally. “You don’t think Lindon can hold out indefinitely then?” It was not a question.

Elrond shook his head. “Whatever that was, it came from further down time’s river. Now? No idea, but this will not be over by the turn of the year, Celeborn. That’s why I’d like to be prepared. Come back with me, have a look for yourself. I’d appreciate another experienced eye – Caedion already seems taken with it.”

Celeborn came close to smiling. “Caedion? In that case, there can be no doubt. But yes, we’ll come and see your valley. My wounded are almost fit to move. Perhaps we can put the practicalities of your plan for a healing centre to the test.” 

 

_South Mithlond_

They ate in the Academy’s dining room, a new experience for Erestor who always took his meals there casually in the kitchen, a practice dating back to when he had entered Círdan’s service on Balar and instantly became one of Maeriel’s extended family of strays. Tonight she sat at the foot of the table as the lady of the house and they were waited on by staff sent over from the palace.

The Númenórean captain was a big man with russet hair and a beard to match. The most noticeable thing about him were his eyes, storm-grey and far-seeing, the skin crinkled at the corners. In build and colouring he was as unlike the people he found himself amongst as an elf might be when visiting the halls of the dwarves. He had the place of honour to the king’s right and seemed quite at ease in the company of royalty as he talked about his journey to Mithlond.

“...high seas, yes, but the air carries a hint of spring now.”

“And all was well with your homeland when you left?” Gil-galad, in a simple tunic over dark trousers and shirt, was all tidy informality save for the priceless pearl and ruby diadem said to have been favoured by Fingolfin that glittered on his unbound hair.  

The captain smiled blandly, radiating honesty. “Ah, everything is fine at home, and the king-in-waiting aids the queen in her work, leaving her time to pursue her passions.”

He did not mention what these passions were, and Erestor suspected that if he was pressed to it, Captain Gimilkhâd might suddenly lose his grasp of Sindarin.

Twice refined brandy and comfits were to be served after dinner, but first Gil-galad suggested a walk along the quay as far as the Númenórean ship and back, to take the air and give the meal a chance to settle before the refreshments and Maeriel’s promise of a little musical entertainment. A king’s suggestion having the weight of a command, the diners duly followed him down the path from the Academy to the harbour in a cloud of chattering exclamation and bright, social laughter.

The air coming in from beyond the mountains was bracing, and the water was busy. All along the quay timbers creaked and ropes snapped taut, while the ever-present flap of sailcloth echoed the slap of waves against stone. Erestor trailed along a little behind the group immediately around the king, listening to the conversation while he watched the night.

“Not a subject for the dinner table, but of course you’ve heard we’re now at war,” Gil-galad was saying almost casually to Captain Gimilkhâd, placing a hand on his elbow to guide him past loose coils of rope. “I hope there’ve been no – situations - in your people’s settlements down south yet?”

“None that I’ve heard, as I told Lord Círdan,” the captain replied. “On my last visit there was talk of disturbances to the east, and part of my brief is to discover the truth of it. The accounts we had were badly garbled and they will be long out of date, too.” His Sindarin was heavily accented, not unpleasantly so but enough to subtly change the rhythm and phrasing of the words.

“Things move swiftly these days.” Gil-galad slowed to watch a small, sleek craft move off from the side, a member of the coastal patrol. “At winter’s end an army came out of the east into the realm beyond Tharbad that we call Eregion, where Ost-in-Edhil stands. Stood.”

“Stood?”

“Stood, yes. It was destroyed by the same eastern power your Tar-Aldarion once warned me of. Their Emperor has revealed himself as a nemesis from the elder days, darker and deadlier than any man or elf you will ever meet. He holds the power to wipe out your southern settlements and even cross the sea in search of new lands.”

Not strictly true so far as Erestor knew, but a nice touch. No harm in a little exaggeration – if that was what it was.

Gil-galad moved away from the group around him, his hand still on the captain’s arm, drawing him aside. His voice drifted back, softer now, more intimate. Gil was famously persuasive; Erestor knew he was not the only one straining his ears to listen.

“For centuries there’ve been rumours of a power rising in the desert lands to the east, and for a time matters were serious enough that Aldarion and I exchanged promises of mutual aid should the threat gain substance. When the danger receded, Queen Ancalime allowed the treaty to lapse, but it still remains extant. Not five years ago I sent word to the present Queen that...”

A flight of bats wheeled low overhead before swooping back up the hill, and Erestor ducked instinctively, missing the next few words.

“...beyond a thanks for the timely warning. What do you say, will you carry a further message back to your queen from me, to remind her again of our old alliance and our mutual risk?”

“I must stop at Lond Daer first and then go further along the coast,” Captain Gimilkhâd replied, his accent making the words harder to pick up than Gil-galad’s. “Two of our lords’ sons are ready to return home and I’m to collect them. They send the boys, mainly younger sons, out here for a time to teach them discipline and keep them out of trouble. The round-trip should take perhaps a month. I thought to head straight out to sea on the return leg, but I can stop here first and Your Majesty can give me whatever you wish to send our queen. And her nephew, Minastir, who,” he paused before continuing, “who will in all likelihood be the one to deal with this. All I can do is add my own accounting of what I see and hear.”

Gil-galad’s voice dropped lower, and Erestor turned so the wind would bring the words to him. “I thought to send a representative this time. Someone who could answer questions more fully, not just recite a message, and speculate where it’s needed.”

“Ah, well that can be done. I could manage an extra passenger or two. That would carry more weight than the word of a mere ship’s captain.”

A wave leapt, shedding droplets of spray across the quay and masked the next few words, though Erestor was fairly sure Gil had snorted at that. The next he heard was, “...would be inclined to heed the word of one of her Venturers. But yes, always best to hear it from as close to the source as possible – I prefer it myself. That’s why I thought to send someone who can speak for me.” He moved back towards the knot of courtiers and advisors, raising his voice. “Círdan? Captain Gimilkhâd will stop off here before his return voyage. He’s agreed to take a messenger along for me.”

“You can take on fresh water then, and some dried meat and fruit,” Círdan said, all sailor. “That’s the least we can do if you’re to have an extra mouth to feed.”

“That would be fair,” Gimilkhâd said with a nod. “The last river is far up the coast and its water none too sweet.”

They reached his vessel and stopped, standing back for a better look. The masts stood tall against the night sky, the only light coming from a single lantern for the mariner on deck duty. The rest of the crew had lodgings up the hill, organised as soon as their sails became visible on the horizon. This was not the first time a Númenórean ship had docked at Mithlond.

“What in the Pit happened there?” Gil-galad pointed to a section missing from the railing and this led straight into a many-sided discussion in which Captain Gimilkhâd catalogued a huge storm with waves higher than the first row of houses above the harbour, with lingering descriptions of splintered masts and torn sails, the kind of tale beloved of sailors but a closed book to everyone else.

Those not involved gathered in twos and threes, talking quietly. Erestor slanted a look at Glorfindel who was standing alone nearby, staring past Gil-galad at the lights across the bay. He must have sensed eyes on him because he shifted his gaze and their eyes met. Erestor glanced towards the animated conversational knot and raised an eyebrow slightly, and Glorfindel just as slightly shrugged. They shared a smile, their first outside the formalities of greeting. Erestor moved closer.

“It’s a shame to admit it, my lord, when I’ve lived close to the sea for most of my life, but all this is a bit beyond me. The King knows about boats, but I’ve done little more than cross from Balar to the mainland in the old days and take the occasional trip along the coast.”

Glorfindel smiled ruefully. “Gondolin - inland city. Tirion - no boats. This time in Aman I was living near a beach and had close ties to a seafaring family. I was prepared to learn?”

“We’re about even. Well then, what should we talk about. Food? Books?”

“Horses?” Glorfindel sounded wistful.

“Have you explored the hills above the city yet?” Erestor gestured towards the lights on the other shore as he spoke. “It’s a popular choice for a day out of town and there are some good trails to ride. The view’s spectacular – nice to take a meal and stop somewhere along the way.”

“I’ve had no chance so far,” Glorfindel admitted. “I haven’t been on horseback since – well, for a long time now.”

Erestor frowned. “You don’t have a horse? How was that overlooked? I’ll speak to Arvarad. It’s his job to make sure you’re comfortable.”

“I doubt he has time for minor details like that right now, not with all his other duties,” Glorfindel said quickly, dropping his voice to avoid being overheard. “No need to disturb him. Now that I know it should have been arranged, I’m sure I can see to it myself. I’ll mention it to the king...”

“Which would have the same effect as me speaking to Arvarad, only louder,” Erestor pointed out, unable to suppress a grin. “I know the workings of that office, I was responsible for most of it myself in the old days. I’d be happy to organise a horse for you, my lord, and someone to spend a morning guiding you up in the hills – or I could do that myself if you like. It’s within my range at least, unlike anything to do with sailing.”

The offer was out of his mouth before he realised he was about to make it. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow.  “I have no seafaring ambitions, I promise. And I’d enjoy the company some day when you have time.”

He was about to say more but was distracted when Gil-galad, who had been on deck taking a closer look at the second mast, jumped back down onto the quay and they all started back towards the Academy. Glorfindel stayed beside Erestor this time, making light conversation. He moved with easy grace and just a hint that he was holding back to match the pace, his easy stride suggesting the strength and speed coiled within, waiting. Erestor told himself he was being fanciful, easy enough out here in the dark with the sea crashing against the breakwater. After all, the tall, courteous man beside him was one of the few warriors to have killed a Balrog. When one looked at it that way, it became a little like taking a stroll with a temporarily docile mountain lion.

But then, Erestor used to like living dangerously.


	2. Seeking Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindir has a new job, Galadriel is determined, and Haldir has a bad day.

_ Mithlond _

The palace was a bustling confusion of people with little time for an outsider, but Lindir was good at finding his way around unfamiliar places and knew a smile coupled with a brisk attitude were good tools for smoothing the way. The fiddle slung over his shoulder and the harp neck protruding from his pack didn’t hurt – everyone liked musicians. Erestor proved less difficult to track down than he expected; people recognised the name and if not the name, the description. Either he was well-known, or else not many short, black haired elves with brown eyes worked there.

The third – or perhaps fourth – person he asked sent him out into the public gardens where he soon spotted Erestor, a still figure sitting on a wall in the sun, rather like a cat. He was staring pensively out to sea, one leg drawn up, hands clasping the knee, the other foot barely touching the ground. His dark hair hung to his waist, shimmering in the sunlight like ink. Lindir crossed the flower-strewn grass to him, crunched over the gravel path. He leaned against the wall, setting the fiddle down carefully at his feet beside his pack. 

Erestor turned his head and nodded almost casually. “Songbird?” as though he had been gone a few days, not several weeks. Lindir assumed the nickname meant he was welcome. “I didn’t expect you back this soon,” he added after a minute, perhaps realising something more was needed.

Lindir, who was watching an incoming ferry and enjoying the sun on his back, contrived to look hurt. “I can go away again if you like.”

“Idiot.” 

“It’s nice here in the sun. Are you free or do you have work to get back to any time soon?” Whether a member of the king’s inner circle and a – presumably former - royal confidant had anything that could be defined as a ‘job’ or was simply an especially privileged courtier wasn’t clear. Lindir thought the lines might get a touch blurred at that level.

Erestor shrugged, coils of hair sliding back over his shoulder. Lindir thought he looked pale, but then he was wearing dark blue, a shade that was currently fashionable but draining. “I’ve been helping with some copy work, but that’s almost finished now. I’m just passing the time really, no actual position as such. I supposed I should have volunteered for service on the border.”

“But you were part of what went before and you might be more use here?” Lindir guessed, refusing to be put off by body language. “How does it work? Have you asked where else you can help or are you waiting for something to present itself, or…?” 

Erestor shrugged. “Not sure, to be honest. It’s the usual thing. You go away for a while, more than a while, and when you get back life has moved on and your space has been filled.”

“Professional space, personal space...?” Lindir realised what he was saying as the words left his lips and mentally kicked himself. Erestor gave him a long look, then made a sound that was almost but not quite a laugh.

“That was blunt. Both? Neither? My former job is adequately managed by the person I hand-picked for it, a friend who is building a career and reputation from it. Personal – I have no personal life, Songbird. I stopped having a personal life some time ago.”

Lindir stood his ground. For him this was a continuation of a conversation they’d had coming down the Emyn Beraid, though Erestor might not see it like that and regret confiding as far as he had. “You have a past, yes, but that’s no reason to shut yourself off from the future. You need to stop punishing yourself.”

“I’m better on my own, Lindir.” Erestor’s tone allowed no argument. “There are questions I’d rather not answer, lies I’d rather not tell. I’m happier keeping to myself.”

“Your state of mind isn’t healthy,” Lindir said glumly. Gulls flew overhead calling and the sea breeze played with his hair, unruly tawny curls struggling loose at its touch. The setting and the company both felt a little unreal. “I know you can’t tell anyone about the trouble on the road, but what happened in Eregion is long gone now, a mistake in your past. You can’t let that – let him - control your life.”

Erestor gave him an expressionless stare. “No one’s controlling my life. And during my debriefing I explained that Annatar had been asking questions - you were right, that wasn’t something to keep to myself. But it’s just... life’s different now. Good enough reason not to carry on as though nothing had happened.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It may be. But you don’t understand how it works here. Anyhow, that’s enough about me. What about you? Why are you back so soon?”

Lindir saw it was time to step back. “Oh, my father and I disagreed about the way I live my life. I thought I’d see if I could rather find work here. I applied to the Chief of Minstrels before I came looking for you and he’ll hear me later today.”

Erestor’s face lit with mischief, and for the first time Lindir got a proper laugh out of him. “I’ve heard Cirithon play - you should be auditioning him, not the other way around. What instrument? Not the harp, right?”

Lindir grimaced briefly, unable to repress a shudder. “I still have to steady myself before I pick it up. That experience on the road, playing Maglor’s harp with those – things – inside it isn’t something I’ll forget in a hurry. Care to come along? It’s always easier when there’s a friendly face to focus on. Steadies the nerves.” 

\-----o

“Well, that went all right, yes?” 

They were in a tavern not far from the palace, seated opposite one another at a corner table, a jug of wine, bowls of olive oil and salt, and a loaf of flat bread heavily scented with garlic laid out between them. Lindir leaned back, loosely clasping the stem of his wine cup. For some reason auditions always left him flat and a bit empty. “Yes, not bad. I can see the Chief and me butting heads at a merry rate – his ideas were old when Daeron was young - but at least I have paying employment. Now I just need somewhere to stay.”

“If you work for the palace, you’re entitled to board,” Erestor told him, breaking off a chunk of bread to salt and dip in the oil. He tasted it and pulled a face. “Think they dropped a few extra cloves in this here; don’t try kissing anyone later.”

Memories of nights together on the road made Lindir shoot him a covert glance, but there was no hint of a double meaning so he left it alone. “Nothing was said about board. Who do I see? It’s that or promise my soul against the price of a room till I get paid.”

“I’ll show you on the way back.” Erestor looked down at the floor beside Lindir’s chair. “Is that all you brought with you? One bag and your instruments?”

Lindir put on a polite expression. Some hurts weren’t for sharing. “I might have left in a bit of a rush,” he said, tearing off some bread to taste. “Yes, they believe in garlic here. It’s very good for clearing out the sinuses I heard?”

“We should have wonderfully clear sinuses then.” Elbows on the table, Erestor set his chin on his linked hands and studied him. “Bit of a rush? So – quite a strong disagreement then?”

“Could be.” Lindir pulled a face, remembering. “Let’s just say I responded badly to being told it was time to settle down, get a real job and find a wife. Be respectable.”

“Good musicians are seldom respectable – too boring. Respected, yes. Does he understand how well you were doing in Ost-in-Edhil?” 

Lindir supposed it was time one of them stopped the dance and offered a straight answer, and Erestor, whose casual tone belied the interest in his eyes, was unlikely to go first. He pulled in a breath, the final encounter with his father still fresh and raw. “I tried. He wasn’t interested. Playing for royalty in Eregion hardly counts. Celeborn and the Lady are notorious rather than famous.”

Erestor nodded sympathy. “I think they deliberately cultivate that reputation. But you played for Gil-galad before you went home. I would have thought that counted for something?”

There was no diplomatic answer to this, so Lindir kept his peace. Erestor’s lips quirked and he raised an eyebrow, amused.

“It’s all right, I know he’s not universally worshipped. So your father was underwhelmed to find you’d played for the High King? I don’t blame you, I’d have left too. What would it take, do you think? To impress him.”

Lindir snorted. “Not sure. Maybe if Oromë crossed the sea to hear me?”

Erestor’s light brown eyes laughed at him over the rim of his cup. “Oh yes, but then if you have luck like mine he’d run into Maglor on a beach somewhere first, so – with respect – you might be a bit of an anticlimax.”

“Do you believe it?” Lindir asked, curious. “That he’s out there somewhere, playing sad songs for the gulls on some forsaken beach?”

“Be hard pressed to find too many forsaken beaches around here,” Erestor said practically. “Maybe further south... No, on second thoughts, up north might work best. For the misery factor. Do I believe it? Not a chance. Maglor was a musician by gift but a soldier by profession; he always struck me as too pragmatic for that kind of melodrama. Elrond seems convinced he’s gone off exploring the world now he’s finally free of the Oath. I wasn’t sure throwing the Jewel into the sea made him free, but Elrond likes to believe it and who am I to argue?”

“I made a song about him once. Maglor. I suppose Gil-galad’s court isn’t quite the place to sing it though.” The song wasn’t Lindir’s best work, but he was fond of it.

Erestor made a dismissive gesture. “You sing what you like. Cirithon might throw a fit, but Gil takes things on merit. He’d like you offering something others would think twice about.”

Lindir made a mental note of this while he took another, more thorough look at Erestor. “Are you all right? Really, I mean. It can’t have been a good few weeks.”

“I’m not sleeping as well as I could,” Erestor replied in a tone that was a bit too casual. Lindir, no stranger to understatement himself, pointedly said nothing. “It’ll pass. I have a lot to think about. It’s been better recently, we’ve been collecting records to send over the sea and the work seems to agree with me.”

“And being back with old friends probably helps too,” Lindir tried, knowing the direct approach would get him nowhere.

Erestor gave him a dark look. “Oh right, old friends. Some are with the army and some ask too many awkward questions about my time in Eregion. I’ve mainly kept to myself, it’s easier.”

Lindir nodded, watching the fine-boned face with the shadowed eyes while he searched for the simplest way to say what he was feeling. “I’m a good listener,” he came up with finally. “And I don’t presume. On the road was on the road, I’m not trying to…”

“You can’t win this one,” Erestor told him. “If you want to sleep with me, you’re being presumptuous. If you don’t want to sleep with me, I’m prepared to be insulted.”

Lindir grinned at him. “Right now I don’t want to commit either way,” he said. “I’ll have enough work fitting in and learning the repertoire. I’d like a chance to get to know you without the pressures of crossing Eriador, that’s all. And listen if you want to talk. Anything more, I leave up to you.”

Erestor placed a hand briefly over his before breaking off more of the garlic bread. “Fair enough. Though the more you know me the more resistible I’ll seem. How about we finish up here before dark and go find where they’re putting you? I’ll even walk you to dinner if there’s time. You’re new and easy on the eye, we can give them something to gossip about.”

_ On the Road _

Soft grass stretched under shadow from the doors of Khazad-dûm, the expanse broken by little hillocks supporting tidy stands of fir, birch and beech. Stone carvings, singly and in groups, studded the undulating green. A neat brick path led down to the lake and continued around it, but the elves kept to the grass, gentle underfoot after the stone halls of the dwarves.

"Did they make those mounds for the trees on purpose, do you think?" Celebrían kept her voice down, but it would take more than trees and statues to render her speechless. "They look as though they were... arranged, don't they? Open grass here, a group of statues there, some trees off to the side."

Galadriel’s eyebrows went up and her breath caught on a laugh. "Why yes, they do rather, though I can't quite see the logic."

"They don't have real trees under the mountain, so this could be their way of using them. As another kind of ornament?"

Galadriel shook her head. "Perhaps? There are carved trees all over the city, aren’t there? This does look rather like a park, just on a bigger scale."

Celebrían looked pleased with herself. "The statues are the same as the ones in their parks, too. And those plinths, or whatever you call them. See? Though the writing looks different..."

"It’s older, I think," Galadriel ventured, looking at faint dwarf runes a short distance away. "Weather worn too, so they're harder to make out."

“But you can read them, can’t you?” 

It was almost, though not quite, a challenge. Galadriel suspected it would be a while before she was forgiven for being the world’s most insensitive mother over Bri’s fear of crossing the bridge in Khazad-dum. She dutifully stopped to frown at a short line of runes. "I tried when I was here once before. Not clearly. These are very old. I think that's a name, but the rest - no. Over there though, near the water, that plain monolith? I can tell you about that one. That is where they say Durin the Deathless first looked into Nen Cenedril, which his people call Kheled-zâram. No, let it be," she added hastily as Celebrían took a step towards the water. "It belongs to their history, not ours. Just mark the spot in your mind and remember it. Presently I’ll show you what he saw."

She diverted Celebrían's attention to a lifelike sculpture of a deer to ward off questions and kept walking till they were further down the glen, away from the mountain door, before crossing the path to the lake. Without speaking, she put a hand on Celebrían’s shoulder and pointed. Reflected in the ink-dark surface, as though etched in light, the mountains’ snowy crests blazed like white fire. In the centre, in the open space where the sky should be mirrored, a half circle of seven brilliant stars gleamed unwinking, a sign set for eternity in Nen Cenedril’s depths.

The valley was very quiet except for the rush of the waterfall and the fitful whisper of the wind. The lake lay mirror-still. Celebrían stood silent, her eyes wide and grave. There was no need to tell her this was Mystery or that it was Lord Aulë’s work. She moved closer and slipped a hand through her mother’s arm and looked in wonder, careful not to go too near the edge. When they eventually moved on she said nothing, but kept hold of Galadriel’s arm for some time.

The brick path beside the lake came to an end where an icy spring leapt and bubbled up into the light, falling over the lip of a stone bowl to flow down towards the trees. They followed, watching it grow and gather momentum along the way, eventually widening into a true river where another stream fed into it. When they reached a sheltered spot under the trees, half-hidden by the undergrowth, Galadriel stopped.

“Here,” she said, unfastening her pack. “This is where we’ll spend the night. There’s water and shelter and we’re still close enough to the dwarves to be safe.”

At star rise they took a few minutes to be quiet and think of Celeborn. Galadriel drew on what she had learned across the sea and later in Doriath, sitting physically relaxed, her mind open. Celebrían, still too young for formal training, struggled to reach her father. It was clear in her face, in the determined frown, the clenched hands and tight carriage. At the end when Galadriel finally moved, signalling the time was over, she gave her mother a hopeful smile and relaxed.

“He would hear that like words, wouldn’t he? All the things I was thinking at him? I tried to show him the lake and how strange it was, and what the leave-taking had been like, and the market in the Hall before the door.”

Towards the end Galadriel had lost patience and pushed, trying to reach him through force of will. She ended defeated, with a feeling of so near and yet so far, but kept the disappointment to herself. She would know if he was hurt, and that was what really mattered. Right now she thought they were still too near the lake and the powerful sense of sleeping magic. “He may not hear them as words exactly, but trying to show him will set them in your mind so you can tell him all about it later when he joins us.”

She could see the answer didn’t satisfy Celebrían, but it had been a long day. For once there were no questions, just a small, disappointed shrug.

With the early evening hush broken only by the river’s bubbling song, Galadriel shared out a portion of the food Thorhof had packed for them. They talked about Khazad-dûm while they ate, with a sense of shared experience that had not been there before. Galadriel spoke more about the interview with Durin, describing the room, the aged dwarf woman, contrasting her to the mighty Father of Dwarves she had met long ago. Later, wrapped in their cloaks and lying close together in the shelter of the bushes, Bri told her mother some of what she had learned about life under the mountain from the dwarf children.

“...and they meet in groups in the mornings and learn how to write and figure and how to cut stone and trim metal. And then when they get bigger, they’re placed with people who teach them their special skill.”

“Do the girls learn with the boys?” Galadriel asked, curious. She still knew too little about the lives of dwarf women. An owl swooped high overhead and for a moment she followed its energy with her mind. It was intent upon prey, wind-sharp mind closed to all else, but had there been danger close by it would have noticed. She relaxed a little then, curling more comfortably on her side.

“The girls too, yes, but some don’t like hot metal or doing stone work. They say you need hard muscles for those things. Is that true, Nana?”

“Working with metal can mean lifting heavy vats of ore,” Galadriel suggested, not giving in to her first instinct to say there was nothing men could do that women couldn’t if they set their minds to it. “And working in stone needs strong hands and arms, though Nerdanel could sculpt amazing things from blocks of solid marble.”

“She was... Fëanor’s mother? No, wait, wait - his wife,” Bri said, triumphant at recalling a part of their convoluted family tree.

Galadriel laughed and reached over to shake her shoulder gently. “Well done. Fëanor’s wife, yes, and the mother of his sons. A metalworker in her own right and a great sculptress. I’ll tell you more about her some time.”

“What sorts of things did she make?” Celebrían asked sleepily. “And how did she find time when her children were small?”

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t born then,” Galadriel said, though she had wondered the same herself once or twice. “Try and sleep now, Bri. We have a long way to go tomorrow.”

“Before you were _born_...” 

She sounded impressed: Galadriel was less so. “I didn’t wake full grown at Cuivienen, dear,” she said tartly. “Of course there was a time before I was born. Now stop talking and go to sleep.”

It was already late. The moon had risen and the trees were murmuring softly together in a tongue as old as time itself. The sound of rippling water was seductively soothing and despite knowing she should stay awake and alert for danger, Galadriel felt secure enough this close to Khazad-dûm to rest her eyes for a while. In no time she was asleep.

Morning dawned with clear skies and the sense of hopefulness that comes as the season turns to spring. They washed in the river, exclaiming and laughing at the cold, and broke their fast on dried fruit and still-fresh bread. Then they shouldered their packs and started walking towards the forest Galadriel had pointed out from their vantage outside the doors to the First Hall. There was little talking: Galadriel was not a morning person.

The ground was rough with stretches of bare rock breaking through the coarse grass and gravel. Winter still held sway here, there were no flowers to break the monotony of grey and brown and lichen green. Galadriel called a halt at midday and they rested a while, eating sparsely and drinking from the river which they continued to follow. Celebrían was so quiet Galadriel finally asked if she was all right.

Clear eyes studied her and found her wanting. “I’m fine, Nana. My feet are just tired and it’s getting hot.”

“We can stay here a while if you like,” Galadriel suggested, though she would have preferred somewhere less open than a flat slab of rock above the river. 

Celebrían shook her head. “No thanks, Nana. If we spend more time here, it will just take longer to get where we’re going, won’t it? That’s what you always say.”

Her voice was polite and resigned. Galadriel dipped her head and accepted another example of her maternal failings.

They reached the outskirts of the forest late in the afternoon, leaving open ground for the shelter of the trees which offered easy cover from prying eyes. Under the green canopy the air had a breathless, watchful feeling, and Celebrían’s voice was barely above a whisper when she asked, “Nana, where is everyone? Is there a proper city or do they live all over the forest?”

“I suppose you could call it a city, yes.” Galadriel spoke softly in turn, for much the same reasons. “It’s further in, near the heart of the wood. Someone will find us before we’ve gone too far and lead us there.”

Celebrían was instantly suspicious. Blue eyes fastened on her. “Why? Are we lost?” 

“Not lost, no. Of course not,” Galadriel said firmly. They rounded a beech cluster and she turned left, trying to make the choice seem deliberate. “But it would be better if there was someone to guide us – I mean quicker.”

Almost as the words left her, she sensed they were not alone. There was no sound, just a change in the air and the faintest hint of movement in the thick brush that grew between the trees. She stopped, touching Celebrían’s arm as she did so, and waited. She made no attempt to unsheathe a weapon nor to reach out with her mind. Best to see what she faced before she admitted to being anything other than a helpless elf woman. 

When they appeared, they seemed to melt out from amongst the trees, nothingness resolving into a group of elves, grey clad and armed with knives and bows, arrows nocked and aimed at them. Galadriel sighed. “Very dramatic,” she murmured, her voice pitched for Celebrían’s ears alone, wanting to reassure her. She felt rather than heard Bri suppress a giggle.

One of the forest guards stepped forward to stand very straight and formal in front of her. He was of average height and solidly built, his pale hair cropped to chin level as was customary for the Wood’s warriors. He looked young and earnest and she felt quite sorry for him.

“Our king asks what your business is in this Wood. These are dark days and we have no welcome for outsiders. Best you turn around and go back to your own land.” Green eyes held steady to a point just past her shoulder while he spoke.

“That might be difficult,” Galadriel countered pleasantly. “I suspect by this time our city has fallen, and I had not heard that Amdír turned elves away from his borders, only dwarves and men. Of which, as you can see, we are neither.”

The young warrior took a deep breath and said determinedly, “Be that as it may, our king says he will have no Noldor contaminate our Wood with their works.” 

Celebrían was so outraged she spoke up before Galadriel could put together a measured reply. “And what would your king like us to do? Walk all the way back beyond the mountains to Lindon? Go live wild with the Avari? It is, it is - unelven – to turn away people in need. And very bad manners!” 

He was taken aback. “My lady, I have my orders…”

Galadriel somehow kept a straight face. “Quite so,” she agreed. “But as my daughter says, it is not our way to deny those in need of a haven. What is your name, young one?” 

He tore his gaze away from Celebrían with her blazing, offended eyes and unmistakeable royal Sindar hair. “I am Haldir, Cyllon’s son, Lady. A Captain of the Western Watch.”

She nodded. “Well, Haldir, son of Cyllon, Captain of the Western Watch, you have delivered your message. In turn, please carry my words to your king. I am called Galadriel, aunt to the High King in Lindon, and with me is Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn of Doriath and a child of Elu Thingol’s line. We request King Amdír’s hospitality and the shelter of your Wood.” 

Dealing with royal princesses, one of them still a girl, had not formed part of Haldir’s training. Most likely cursing the fate that had seen him in the right place at the wrong time, he belatedly signed his men to lower their weapons. “I’ll find you ladies somewhere safe to pass the night,” he said brusquely. “It might take a day or two for me to return, but this is a matter for our king’s discretion and that’s as the thing is. You may not be comfortable, but at the least I can promise that you will be safe.”

\----+----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cirithon – rocks   
> Cyllon – bearer


	3. Obscure Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel declines an offer and goes riding. Erestor is being slowly backed into a corner.

Mithlond

“Didn’t help much, did it?” Gil-galad said, handing Glorfindel his wine before sinking into one of the chairs ranged about the hearth. A crackling fire brightened the sitting room and the drapes were drawn against the grey of early evening. Outside the wind had come up and whistled past, shaking the door out onto the private terrace. Listening to it, Glorfindel thought the council meeting had ended just in time. It had taken place on one of the palace balconies, offering the maximum in privacy but little protection from the elements.

“Well, we have a better overview now,” he suggested, taking the chair opposite and sampling his wine which rivalled anything Tirion could offer: Gil-galad had a good cellar. Setting the cup down on the low table beside his chair he began counting items off on his fingers. “The road into Lindon is secure. Morale along the border is high. We know Ost-in-Edhil is in enemy hands and that our army suffered heavy losses near Tharbad. Also that the remnant have joined forces with Celeborn’s fighters and are still harrying the enemy.”

“This would be the same army you wanted to travel with, yes.” Gil-galad’s eyes flashed humour, though his face had grown grim at mention of that defeat. “The one I was so unreasonable as to stop you from joining and where you claimed you would have been quite safe.”

“Is that the same ‘I told you so’ you got from your Council?” Glorfindel countered with a grin. “It sounds well-rehearsed. And who knows, a little more experience out there might have helped.”

“Elrond had captains who fought before the sun rose,” Gil-galad said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out closer to the fire. “But yes, experience might have helped. Or not. At least he has Celeborn to advise him. We aren’t close, but I have never doubted his ability.”

“You don’t get along with Celeborn?” Glorfindel had only met Artanis’s future husband once and was curious. “He seemed pleasant enough to me, but then her brothers were around when we met so he would have been on his best behaviour.”

Gil-galad shrugged. “Personality clash, nothing more. They make a good team and I’ve seen him fight – he’s impressive.”

Glorfindel decided not to press and just nodded. Círdan could tell him more about a Sindarin prince. “You’re serious about sending a representative over to Númenor then?” he asked instead, turning the subject with ease. “There were some surprised faces when you raised that.”

Gil-galad looked meditatively into his wine cup. The firelight glinted off the mithril that still banded his head and brought out russet tones in his dark hair. “I could send another letter with Gimilkhâd. That was my original plan, but a letter’s easy to ignore. It lacks immediacy. Not like someone who can argue our case, emphasise the horror and strength of a renegade Maia.”

“True enough. And you want to send a party, not just one trusted emissary?” This had started a short-lived debate earlier about the size and status of such a delegation, but Gil-galad had put an end to the discussion even before Arvarad had time to intervene.

“Don’t see why not. Two views are better than one. They just need to travel light.” He paused, cup half raised, and considered Glorfindel. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested, would you?”

“I doubt I would be allowed,” Glorfindel replied candidly, softening it with a smile. In his experience, one did not simply tell kings ‘no’. “My instructions were to come east where I was to protect and serve. My instinct is that going back across the sea would lie outside of those instructions.” Lórien's orders, which he had yet to find a way to evade, had been to acquire Celebrimbor's artefacts and bring them to Aman. Placing distance between himself and the rings would infuriate the Lords of the West, a bad choice for someone travelling by sea, Lord Ulmo’s domain. 

While he spoke he reached out effortlessly and felt the rings in some inner room, closer than they had been since the day of their arrival. They were quiescent, sleeping he called it, and he was careful not to rouse them in case his host felt the intrusion. Whether he would was an open question as Gil-galad refused to discuss the rings at all. The third of Celebrimbor's masterpieces lay many leagues distant, far beyond Glorfindel’s reach, and while that was the case he would take no action. Anyhow, were he to try and leave Mithlond, he was certain Lórien would stop him.

Gil-galad was frowning but nodded. “Makes sense, yes. And I’d rather have your company here in any case.” 

Glorfindel forced himself to relax against the chair’s velvet cushions, let the rings be and pay attention. “Can I ask who else you have in mind? I heard mention of Gildor, though no one seems to know where to find him. Could you reach him? And I heard talk that Círdan thinks well of Galdor, his friend from Doriath. The name confused me for a moment, I knew a Galdor back in Gondolin.”

“Gildor falls under the same ban as my aunt for refusing to ask pardon for his part in the rebellion. I have no idea how far west he could sail without the seas rising up, and I doubt he’d put it to the test.” Gil-galad said with grim amusement. He shrugged, drank deeply. “Pity – he can be very persuasive. That’s what we need, a silver tongue. That cuts Galdor out, he’s sensible and well-read, but charm isn’t one of his strong points.”

Glorfindel nodded, cast his mind back over names and faces. “How about Círdan himself then? 

One of the rings half roused, sending a shiver over his skin. Gil-galad gave no sign of having noticed anything. Instead he snorted a laugh. “Right, I can see that. Círdan would be telling them to move their backsides and get their fleet over here right now. No, not my foster-father. We need a diplomat.” 

“I know you can’t recall him now, but wouldn’t Elrond be the best choice? He’s your heir and his brother founded the Númenórean royal line…”

“Elrond - I don’t know, I’m not sure how they’d react to the elven half of the family.” He swirled the wine in his cup, scowling at it, then looked up, eyes finding Glorfindel’s. “In any event, that point is moot. There’s no way to get him back here in time. I thought of Erestor?”

Erestor had been present at the meeting, seated with Arvarad, his presence drawing more than one pair of eyes. He had been quiet in the main, raising the occasional point and asking a few questions, all of which seemed obvious upon reflection, all of which had previously been overlooked. He once held Arvarad’s position and Glorfindel now better understood why. “As an ambassador to Númenor?” He considered it. “His skills are more along the lines of gathering and collating information, surely?”

“Well we’ll need a bit of that, and he’s good at it. He’s got natural talent, and my aunt trained him well.” Gil-galad’s tone was dry. “But he’s also socially competent and he can be very charming when he sets his mind to it. I’m at peace with him taking decisions in my name if he must, and I doubt anyone knows much more about the way this has unfolded than he does. No one this side of the Ered Luin anyhow.”

“You... trust him?” Something about Erestor niggled at Glorfindel, something he had no name for. A reticence perhaps, a sense of containment. Walls. Hardly surprising in someone who had been involved in Artanis’s affairs, even less so in someone Gil-galad had sent to spy for him in Eregion. Still, there was something about him that felt wrong, a quietness. And there was a wistfulness in the king’s voice that made Glorfindel wonder if he was also aware of it. For all the hints and rumours he had picked up, they seemed to spend little if any time together.

“We met on Balar, we’ve been friends ever since,” Gil-galad said quietly. “If there was any reason not to trust him, I’d have found it long ago. He can think on his feet and he’s dealt with Númenóreans before, for my aunt. He has the language. For that reason alone, he might be the best person for the job.”

Glorfindel nodded, smiled – and there it was again with the return smile, that glimmer of something unnamed in those bright eyes. He put it aside to think on later, in the same private compartment that held the dream and the swan boat. Raising his cup to the light, he focused his attention on the here and now and asked about the wine instead.

\-----o

The mist had lifted and soft sunlight filtered through the clouds onto Mithlond and the gulf. The water shimmered, blue and placid as summer, though the trees' still-bare branches gave that impression the lie. There were pleasant trails up into the hills behind the city, and it was along one of these that Erestor led Glorfindel the morning after the council meeting. They had run into one another at the stables and, perhaps reminded of their conversation at the harbour, Erestor had suggested they enjoy the fresh air together. 

Glorfindel's horsemanship was rusty, but Erestor set an easy pace and was pleasant company, happy to point out places of interest and answer questions. Finally he came to a halt at the edge of a promontory overlooking the city, and they spent a short while sharing the vista in silence while the horses huffed and nickered softly. It was Glorfindel who spoke first. “I never realised how many ships were in the bay till now. This is a beautiful spot, thank you for showing me the way.” 

Erestor nodded, his eyes still on the view. He pointed to a cargo boat moving out of the harbour under oar, her sail down but her pennants streaming. “Harlindon bound, those are the colours of one of the Sindar Great Houses. Most of those are merchants, though that one close to shore is one of Lord Círdan’s patrols. I can draw you a map if you’d like? It’s pretty here in summer, just still a bit sparse this time of the year. Further up in the hills --- there --- you’d find good hunting too, though if you’ve gone with the king, you’ll know that.”

Glorfindel smiled slightly. “I’ve been invited, but I don’t hunt. Not anymore.” Realising something further might be required here, he added, “I have been hunted.”

Erestor made a non committal sound. “He’s really more interested in the exercise,” he said. “Back in the old days on Balar he was hardly still, there were enemies to fight and when he wasn’t fighting there were people to organise. This more - sedentary life never agreed with him much.”

“You’ve known one another a long time, I’ve been told?” Glorfindel placed the inflection midway between a question and a statement.

“Since the previous Age, yes,” Erestor agreed. “I was Lord Círdan’s - secretary, I suppose you’d call it – for a while, so we were living in the same house.”

“I was surprised not to see you at any of the private gatherings I’ve attended.” He chose his words carefully, leaving a little gap hanging at the end of the sentence. Erestor could pick it up or ignore it as he wished, but it was Glorfindel’s experience that people had an instinct to fill gaps.

Erestor spared him a look that said he was unimpressed by the attempt, but he answered anyhow. “I’ve been away over fifty years, and it doesn’t do to presume. Things change, people move on, social circles adapt. Plus it takes time to adjust – it’s a different routine to what I grew used to in Ost-in-Edhil.”

It was Glorfindel’s turn to sound unconvinced. “The king strikes me as very accessible. Perhaps you should discuss it with him? I notice no one questioned your presence at the meeting yesterday.”

He was seeking answers that still lacked a question, following an instinct that said something was wrong here. The unreadable face and air of detachment were like an itch just under his skin. They seemed not to fit someone Gil-galad spoke of with that combination of respect and trust. 

Erestor, however, just shrugged. ”I’m an old habit. Arvarad was very accommodating. Adjusting to life in Ost-in-Edhil wasn’t lacking in complications, so I suppose I should expect the return to be at least as uncomfortable. What I need is productive employment, not a heart to heart with Gil and assurances that I can still join the hunt or attend select dinner parties. Which I suppose I could if I insisted.” There was nothing to be read in those eyes, the brown made golden by some trick of the light.

“Surely the whole point of friendship lies in being able to speak your mind? Even to a king. Well, this king at least should be open to it.” 

“You sound like Lindir,” Erestor said grimly.

Glorfindel put a face to the name and grinned briefly. “The minstrel? I’m always surprised people don’t take them more seriously. You need a solid grasp on matters of heart and mind to make a good song. I hadn’t realised you two were friends until I saw you together yesterday, I thought it was just Artanis wanting more than one person to protect the rings on the road.”

“It was an interesting journey,” Erestor said absently, patting his horse’s neck as a prelude to moving along. “We get on. He’s travelled widely, he’s easy to talk to – makes for good company.”

Glorfindel kept his smile and tone politely casual. He had pried enough for now. “I’m sure he is. Should we turn back soon? You said you had work to do?”

“Indexing, yes, clerk’s work but there’s some I’d rather do myself than risk mistakes. We can go back now, I think, if that’s all right with you. And thank you for the advice. It was helpful.” 

Glorfindel, who disliked mysteries and had time on his hands, took the opportunity as it presented itself. “I’m glad to have been of service. Perhaps there is some way to help with the documents you’re preparing for Aman? I write a fair hand and have very little to do right now.”

“He’d be horrified if he found I’d put you to work copying family trees or some such,” Erestor said lightly. “Though I’d be glad of an extra pair of eyes checking my efforts. And the company, of course. Perhaps we can arrange something for when you have the time? It might even be a way for you to catch up on what’s happened in your... absence.”

“It’s all right,” Glorfindel said cheerfully as his horse fell into step beside Erestor’s. “You can say ‘since my death’. I’m getting used to the idea. At least the condition wasn’t permanent.”

++O++

“For once you’re not rushing off somewhere,” a familiar voice said behind him. “I don’t think we’ve had a chance to talk since you got back.”

Erestor had gone to some trouble since his return to avoid being trapped into awkward conversations, but tonight was Lindir’s first appearance and he felt obliged to show up and offer moral support. Lindir had been scarce for days, practicing till he said his fingers ached; Erestor had no idea why, because as far as he could tell the musician outclassed anything the royal minstrels had to offer. When he decided to brave the Hall though, it had not crossed his mind that Gil-galad would come over to say hello. Normally royalty expected people to come to them. 

Habit took over. He turned and smiled, lowering his glass while reminding himself not to play with the stem or fall into any of the other traps that signalled nervousness. Not in front of Gil. “I’ve been helping the copyists, but scribing likes natural light so early start, early nights. Not quite my usual work, but a week’s holiday was about all I could manage before boredom took hold. I’m not used to being idle.”

Gil-galad had his ‘company’ face on, as Erestor thought of it: polite, friendly, self-assured. He would laugh at a joke, ask smiling questions, but keep his thoughts hidden somewhere behind those clear blue eyes. What he was really thinking was anyone’s guess. “You’re seeing to the family histories, Arvarad tells me – all the gossipy bits, right?”

“There’s things in there I thought you might want handled discreetly --- inappropriate love notes and the like shouldn’t be lost, but they have no reason to cross the sea as part of an official history.”

The social mask dropped for a moment, Gil-galad looked almost startled. “You got rid of Fingon’s love letters?”

Erestor allowed himself a very small sip of wine. “Not quite. They’ll go with your personal papers. That way you could return them to him later yourself if you chose... just to see the look on his face would be worth it, considering who they’re addressed to.”

They shared a smile that held memories: they had read those letters together, lying in bed and lazing away a summer’s morning. Erestor suppressed the memory ruthlessly. The past was the past. Gil-galad’s eyes lost the look of polite interest, and he seemed about to say more. For the first time in weeks, Erestor felt truly ‘there’, present, and was starkly aware of that inner warmth that comes from being an object of desire or interest. He forced down the first stirrings of panic and cast around for something unprovocative to say. Spotting movement at the end of the Hall where the musicians performed as a troupe rather than mingling with the crowd to ply their trade, he raised a hand, cutting off whatever Gil-galad was about to say. 

“I came to hear Lindir’s first court performance,” he said hastily. “I think they’re about to start. You should enjoy this more than the brief taste he gave you before he left. He has a good voice and a sound touch.” The action plus the words coming out of his mouth scarcely seemed to belong to him.

Gil-galad looked taken aback, and Erestor wondered if there was no longer anyone willing to interrupt him or speak their mind. He supposed not. From what he had seen since his return, things had become more formal, advancement more a way of life than before. Then Gil-galad smiled, and the easy friendship they used to share was only a hand’s span away. “Come and join us then? He’ll direct the song to wherever I’m sitting, Cirithon will make sure of it.”

“Cirithon barely knows what to do with him, Lindir’s far beyond his instruction,” Erestor said dryly. “I said I’d be up near the stage, if that’s all right? Where he could see me. He says it’s good to have a familiar face to come back to if you feel shaky. Not that I think he ever does.” As a performer Lindir had nerves of steel. Under other circumstances they were equally as sound, as Erestor had reason to know.

Gil-galad gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s all right then,” he said. “You go over and look reassuring. We can catch up later. I’m not hard to find. Or avoid, if that’s your choice. I’ll be over there on the left, with Glorfindel. Perhaps we’ll see you later – bring Lindir over, I’ll pull out a few compliments, make him feel at home.”

Erestor nodded, already starting to move off. Some part of his persona that was not living in a disconnected daze watched this with quiet horror, wondering what had become of his court manners: you did not walk away from royalty, you waited to be dismissed. “I’ll do that. Only sincere compliments though. He’s his own worst critic – he’ll know.” He had just told his king – not his friend, his king - not to be insincere. He closed his mouth firmly before he could make things even worse.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gil-galad said without so much as blinking. “Later then, Erestor. When you’re ready.”

The dual meaning was not lost. Aware of Gil-galad’s eyes on his back, Erestor made his way over to the far end of the Hall, wishing it felt a little less like an escape. They both deserved better.

\-----o

“Well if it felt wrong, you need to take a deep breath and go make it right.”

Erestor decided that for someone who could turn a delicate phrase and sing from the heart about lost love, Lindir was disappointingly unsympathetic. It was the following morning and they were sitting in the sun out on one of the terraces, Erestor on a bench, Lindir on a cushion on the stone flags, tuning a battered-looking lute. He had not planned to raise the subject of his conversation with Gil and how it had left him feeling, but Lindir had seen them talking and, being Lindir, had asked. Somehow the easy silences while the musician tightened, listened, tightened some more, had led Erestor’s tongue down unexpected pathways, and by the time he suspected the silence was deliberate, it was too late.

“We’ve been over this before --- one confession has me dying of shame, and the other names me Kinslayer.”

Lindir frowned at him, pushing tawny curls impatiently back from his face. “Need to cut this damn stuff right off like a mortal, it’s always in the way. Look, you had to save both our lives and protect the harp, so it was an act of war really. And the other thing – you didn’t know who he was and you need to let it go, and I think the only way you’ll do that is if you go confess to the person you feel you let down most. Besides yourself, I mean.”

Erestor compressed his lips and glared. “You’re no help. What, you want me exiled?”

“No, you need to. It’s bothering you too much not to be important.”

“And you’d look stupid with short hair. How short?”

“Oh, they cut it anywhere from shoulder length to just below the ears. Cool in summer, also makes it easier to deal with lice. He won’t exile you, there are – what do they call it? – extenuating circumstances.”

“You have lice? Thanks for the warning. Lindir, the law says…”

“Gil-galad is High King of elvenkind in the East,” Lindir said practically. “The law is what he makes of it. If he thinks there’s nothing to answer for, that’ll be the end of it. And no, I do not have lice, I have in fact never met an elf with head lice. Other kind of lice a few times, but that’s what comes of visiting mortal brothels. Them, not me. And it’s touching to know it matters to you.”

“I wouldn’t want to sit too close,” Erestor told him coolly. “Nothing more. And Gil believes noble blood doesn’t set anyone above the law, including him. Especially him.”

“It’s not about being above the law, it’s deciding how to interpret it, and in this case everything you’ve done has an answer, there’s nothing that was done with a deliberate eye to – I don’t know, take your pick, treason or murder.” He dropped his voice on the last phrase as two courtiers passed a little too close. They probably wanted a good look, Erestor thought cynically. Predictably, his friendship with Lindir was already a matter for gossip.

“It’s not an easy subject to broach, either. I mean, I can’t just wander in, ask if he has a few minutes and then pour it all out…”

Lindir rested an elbow on his knee and looked up at him, chin on hand, sun kissed hair falling in a tangled cascade over his shoulder. “Why not? You say you’ve been friends for years, so what would be more natural than to go confide in him? He needs to know anyhow – what would happen if a bunch of Avari showed up to ask what happened to their brother who was guiding us home? He’d likely want to have the full story from you first.”

“… that is not going to happen, Lindir!”

“You don’t know who Badger spoke to before he joined us or who might have seen us together.” Lindir picked up the lute again and started tuning it in earnest. “As for the other thing... all you need is for some refugee from Ost-in-Edhil to start gossiping about you and Annatar where someone who matters can hear. After that, it might look funny that you never admitted to more than discussing history or whatever it was you said.”

Erestor stared at him wordless and shivered. The cold wasn’t on his skin, it seemed to radiate from the inside out, from a place that was bone deep. Lindir worked on for a while, seemingly oblivious, then looked up. “What? You know it’s the truth. You’ve had time to catch your breath, there’s no point in hiding from it any longer. You have to tell him, Ery. Trust me on this, it’ll come back to bite you if you don’t. Hard.”


	4. Farewell to Balar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad wants some answers.

_Mithlond_

It was difficult to avoid a token appearance after dinner, but Erestor had found if he moved briskly, as though on his way to somewhere in particular, he could normally evade conversation. To begin with, this had been a ploy to elude people who might ask awkward questions about his stay in Eregion and if he had ever actually met Sauron, but by now he was drawing back from social intercourse in general and a short term convenience was on the way to becoming a habit.

He had picked out a quiet corner where he could finish his wine in peace and then go up to bed if Lindir didn’t appear and was on his way there when he noticed the approaching officer, clad in the blue and white tunic, red cloak and well-shone helmet of the king’s guard. He wore a determined look as he bisected the crowd at an angle and came to a halt in front of Erestor, effectively barring his way.

The officer jerked his head in something that could barely be called a bow, but then Erestor’s position at court was vaguely defined at best and he lacked a title. “His Majesty asks if you would join him in the garden. I’m to tell you there’s a matter he’d like to discuss.” 

His voice was polite, pleasant even, but there was no mistaking this for an optional request; it was a summons, and the officer stood waiting to escort him. Erestor kept his face bland as he finished the wine in a long swallow. He should have felt nervous or been trying to pin down what had provoked the invitation, but the same veil that hung between him and the cheerful crowd in the well-lit palace courtyard seemed to blunt his response to this as well. Putting the cup on the edge of a flower trough where it had some chance of being noticed by the staff, he said, “I wouldn’t dream of keeping His Majesty waiting. Lead on.”

They took the main exit from the courtyard and cut around the side of the palace and down into the portion of the garden reserved for residents, though not towards the private section serving the royal apartments and privileged guests. Gil-galad was easy to find, standing beside the path and looking out to sea. 

The officer saluted. “Master Erestor, Sire,” he said and stepped back smartly. 

Gil-galad pulled his attention from whatever he was watching and nodded his thanks. He considered Erestor for a moment and then beckoned, a brief, confident inclination of fingers. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said formally, which was totally unnecessary to Erestor’s mind as there had been very little choice. “Are you all right here or should we go inside? If that’s silk, you’re likely to freeze.”

Silk was fashionable in Ost-in-Edhil though had barely reached chilly Mithlond, at least not in the form of apparel, though some exceptional wall hangings had been imported. The finely woven robe, glowing in deep jewel shades, had seemed a viable choice for dinner, but it had been bought to impress other eyes in another time. A shard of ice traced his spine at the memory. “I’m all right. You wanted to see me?”

Gil-galad’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded and gestured ahead. “Walk with me.”

Erestor fell in step with him and they went down into the garden, away from the light and noise. There were little lanterns sparkling in the bushes along the two most popular paths, otherwise they were in a fragrant jumble of shapes with a view of the deeper dark that was the sea. There were benches set at intervals, where residents could enjoy the sun during the day, but the air coming off the gulf was cold. Gil-galad paused beside one, looked around, still concerned. “Didn’t realise the wind had come up this much. We can go in…?”

“It’ll do,” Erestor said and meant it. He would rather be outdoors in the cold than confined to some quiet room indoors. “Over there, it’s sheltered. I like being able to smell the sea again, it’s been a while.”

They sat. Erestor shook the skirts of the robe to hang neatly and then let his hands rest loosely in his lap. He looked out towards the sea, a dark mass under the stars, and ignored the wind tugging at his hair. He felt like a deer that had tried to outrun the huntsman and now stood exhausted, breathless, awaiting the final blow. He had no doubt that all his careful avoidances of the past weeks had finally come to nothing and knew with unexpected certainty that whatever the cost, he could not tell a direct lie to this man.

Gil-galad gave an appearance of ease as he leaned into the opposite corner of the bench, but was being careful not to touch him. In the past it would have been natural in a secluded spot like this for him to reach out a hand to play with Erestor’s hair, rest it on his shoulder or waist, but those days were gone. Instead he sat looking out into the dark as though gathering his thoughts. Finally he spoke, picking the words slowly. 

“I have watched you for weeks, avoiding friends, avoiding me, trying to drown yourself in work. You come to dinner in the evenings because you must, have a cup of wine, then vanish off to bed before anyone can get close. You go to a lot of trouble to put yourself as far from me as you can – probably because I’m harder to ignore than other people. You’ve been quiet as a ghost since you got back from Eregion. I want to know what’s wrong.” 

“That’s not fair,” Erestor was put out rather than affronted; real outrage took more energy than he currently had available. “Of course I talk to people.”

Gil-galad snorted. “Oh yes, of course. I suppose you might be talking to Arvarad about more than his job. You’re certainly talking to that musician, Lindir – he’s the only person I’ve seen you with more than once of an evening. Maeriel’s worried about you. She wanted to confront you, but I told her to wait, whatever’s troubling you would come out in its own time. You always talk to me in the end. But you haven’t. And so we are here.”

“I’ve been away a while,” Erestor pointed out. Normally his mind would have been racing, lining up the best words to present his point, but it was empty and light. It was as though trying to outplay Annatar had drained his skill. ”It takes a while to adapt, especially with so many changes.”

“Rubbish,” Gil-galad said bluntly. “You look as though you barely sleep. You are so pale that if you were mortal, I’d guess you were ill. There’s plenty for me to worry about right now, Erestor. It’s enough. I want to know what happened in Eregion.”

Erestor thought he had nothing to say, so when they came, the words seemed to fall out of their own volition.

“I slept with him. It went on for a few weeks, I just…”

“The world won’t end, Res. There were no promises, we were both free to do as we chose.” The tone was impatient but amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The Mighty know, I’ve not been celibate. I didn’t expect a musician, but I wasn’t surprised to find you’d met someone, there’s no need to…”

Erestor stared at him for a moment and then saw the error. He caught Gil-galad’s arm, almost shaking it. “Annatar,” he said urgently. “Not Lindir. Annatar.” 

Little night insects droned into the ensuing silence, frogs called. Something disturbed a nesting bird and it cried out in alarm. The sea hissed and whispered. The air was very cold, too cold for silk, but salty and clean. 

Gil-galad straightened up. All he said was, “Tell me.”

Erestor kept the sentences short, to the point. At times the wind caught his words and carried them away and Gil-galad had to lean closer to hear but he never asked for a repeat: perhaps he knew Erestor might not start again if he was interrupted. After he finished, nothing was said for a while. Gil-galad sat staring into the dark, unblinking. The wind was growing colder. Resisting the urge to tug the silk closer about him. Erestor let the air bite. It kept him anchored, real, far from that windowless room in Annatar’s exquisitely appointed little house.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “He was Celebrimbor’s honoured guest, no more, no less. I didn’t know. No one knew.”

“Did you tell him anything more than you mentioned in your debriefing?” Gil-galad’s voice was even and calm.

“There was gossip, questions about people, their little habits, funny memories I might have about them... I don’t know, it all runs together.”

“I need to know what he knows,” Gil-galad said with deliberate patience. “I need to know if there is anything he can use against us, hold against us, anything that offers him an advantage. I need you to untangle it and tell me.”

“I don’t know.” The words were little more than a breath. 

Gil-galad reached over and with an ungentle hand caught his chin and forced his head around, met and held his eyes. “Yes, you know. Now. From the beginning.”

Erestor’s nerves had always been good and they held now, though only just. He stared until Gil-galad released him. “He wanted to know about people I knew – you, of course, Círdan, Gildor, the Lady, who your military heads were and why – joking, asking if they were good choices, asking about their families….. Gossip.” 

“Pillow talk, you mean.” Flatly.

Erestor felt his skin crawl but nodded. “Y – yes, I suppose you’d call it that. Pillow talk, yes. Harmless. Nothing that could be used against anyone. I thought – I think he was just curious. I was better placed than he’d realised at first and he wanted to see if anything useful would slip out.”

“And did it?”

Erestor turned to him so fast his hair swung across his face. He pushed it back fiercely. “Of course not. There was nothing to tell. I had no military secrets, he wasn’t asking me for those, he was just...”

“Trying to get you to open a window onto our lives.” 

The words were delivered like a slap and Erestor flinched instinctively. Then something Lindir had said came back to him. “But I left, Gil. He didn’t discard me. So whatever he wanted, he must still have been trying to find. Mustn’t he?”

Gil-galad stared at him hard-eyed, then let out a gusty sigh and leaned back. “Res, what the fuck were you thinking? _Were_ you even thinking?”

Erestor scuffed at the gravel surrounding the bench with his toe till he caught himself doing it and stopped. He shook his head. “I thought I could find out more about him, find out who he really was, what he wanted. Yes, it sounds ridiculously arrogant now, but at the time...”

“And meanwhile he was doing exactly the same with you. Just better.”

Erestor held up his hands defensively, then let them drop. Somehow, despite the awfulness of it all, he felt lighter for having it out in the open at last. Not that he planned ever to tell Lindir he had been right.

They looked at one another. Finally Gil-galad reached out, tidied his windblown hair back and left the hand on his shoulder. “Stupidest thing you’ve ever done. How bad was it?”

Erestor looked away. “I can’t talk about that, Gil. It was... its own thing. I can’t – I’m not sure I liked what I learned about myself.”

“He’s a Maiar,” Gil-galad said quite gently. “You need to be sure which are your own thoughts and what he fed you. Anyhow, if you want to talk about it, you know where to find me. You must do, you’ve been so damn good at avoiding me.”

“I didn’t know how to say it and I don’t lie to you. Talking – talking to anyone’s been hard. It was easier to keep my distance.” It was the closest he could get to explaining the way the world seemed permanently just beyond his fingertips.

“And you’re not sleeping with your musician?”The hand on his shoulder moved, fingers found and fondled his earlobe.

About to pass the question off with a joke, Erestor suddenly found himself fending off a sickening rush of acid heat in the pit of his stomach. Musician. Lindir. Eriador. 

Badger. 

Gil-galad was close enough this time to feel the change. “Res? Something?”

He did not want to talk about it. He had managed Annatar, or as much of the story as he could articulate, and that was surely enough. But he had decided he wouldn’t lie and this would surely be a bigger lie, even if by omission. Annatar – he could not use the other name – was bad judgement, a potentially dangerous mistake. The other was against elven culture and the law of Lindon. 

He breathed in, steadied himself, exhaled. “I killed someone.”

Gil-galad’s hand dropped to his shoulder again and lay still. “Go on.”

“An elf.” 

The sea spoke to the sky, the sounds of music drifted down the garden from the courtyard. A couple went past, heading for deeper shadow, arm in arm. Gil-galad watched them out of sight then said, “Gods, you never do things by halves. Who and why?”

Erestor felt his mouth twist wryly. “Will you promise me something? I don’t normally beg favours…”

Gil-galad gave him a searching look. “Will I regret this?” Erestor knew he never promised something until he had its shape, knew how far he might compromise himself. They had talked about this before, about how it had been drummed into him from childhood. But mutual trust went back a long way too. 

“It doesn’t affect what happened or what you might do about it, but I don’t want to drag anyone else into my mess if I can help it.”

“That’s fair. If it’s a promise I can’t keep, we’ll talk about it.”

Erestor nodded. “Thank you. Lindir knew, but I bullied him into not telling. His hands are clean, his only fault was to be there.”

Gil-galad sighed, shrugged. “I should have guessed. All right, I gave my word and that seems a reasonable request. Though it’s interesting that his first loyalty is to you and not his king.”

“Oh don’t be an ass, this is bad enough.”

Gil-galad let go of a reluctant laugh, Erestor didn’t join in. “I’ve missed that. There’s not many left here who’ll tell me I’m being an ass. All right, you killed an elf. Start at the beginning. How did this happen?”

\------o

Erestor took the tumbler of brandy from Gil-galad and swallowed a decent mouthful. The liquor burned a path down his throat and spread heat in its wake, though even that could not reach the chill that seemed to have sunk into his bones. Gil-galad had left the room and came back with a cloak which he put around Erestor’s shoulders, his hands lingering a moment before he stepped back.

“Sit. Warm up, you’re like ice. I was selfish, it’s miserable out there.”

Erestor finally glanced around the sitting room, a room he had always liked, taking in the comfortable chairs by the hearth, the divan against one wall heaped with cushions and throws, the table under the window with the familiar Red Mage pieces ready for play. It looked almost as he recalled it, down to the little jade carving of a stupendously ugly dog he had once given Gil, claiming it was a southern version of Huan. They had fallen into bed laughing the night of his return from the East, and the dog had sat on the dresser smirking at them... He sank down onto the closest seat, which was the divan, and shook his head, pulling the cloak tighter around him. “It’s going to rain.”

“Yes, it is.” Gil-galad remained standing, swirling the contents of his glass, frowning. He had listened to the entire story of what happened with Badger with no comment, no expression, just sitting still and granting Erestor space by not looking directly at him. At the end he had said merely that even he was getting cold and they needed to take the conversation indoors. Erestor had thought they would go back to the courtyard or possibly into the great hall, but instead Gil-galad led him in through one of the side doors and along to his own apartment in the private wing. Two warriors kept pace behind them, a new precaution, part of the trappings of a kingdom at war. 

“I’m sorry,” Erestor finally said quietly. “I’m not asking you to protect me. I understand what I’ve done, I know the penalty. I just – it’s why I begged Lindir to say nothing. I should have come clean during my debriefing.” He spoke from within a flash of memory: the moonlight glinting off the knife as Badger came in for the kill, the silence, the silhouettes of trees against the night sky, time slowing, his dagger sliding through living flesh, so easy, so easy...

“Then there would have been a formal hearing and I’d have had to keep the law and exile you,” Gil-galad said bluntly. “I couldn’t explain publicly what you were doing in Eriador, why you had to kill rather than lose the harp and what was in it to an Avari thief. So no, on the whole I’m glad you thought better of that.”

“I hoped it would never come out. When Lindir said I should tell you in case Badger’s people came asking questions, that someone might even know we travelled with him, I said it couldn’t happen. But – it could.”

“Yes... it could.” Gil-galad walked to the window, looked out, then pulled the heavy drape back in place. “Foul out there. It could. And if it did, we never had this conversation. You left him just before the crossing, and if something happened to him after, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“I killed an elf, Gil!” 

Gil-galad spun round and glared at him. “Yes, you did. And if you hadn’t, where would we be now?”

“I should have subdued him, tied him up or something. I knew that after, but when it happened...”

“You went on instinct and training, you removed the threat. If you had tried to ‘subdue’ him, as you put it, you might have failed, and that might have left you and the musician both dead and Celebrimbor’s rings being passed around among the Avari. How long do you think they could hold them? They’re the pinnacle of Noldor craft and power, Erestor. For good or ill, we’re the ones with the strength and skill to control them. ”

“Yes, but….”

Gil-galad had paced the length of the room and back while he spoke, now he ended up at the fireplace and frowned down at the unlit logs before turning his back to it. His voice was decisive. “You were carrying out my aunt’s orders. The woman is Finwë’s granddaughter, her father is High King over the sea. If later she wants you punished for the way you followed them, she can handle it --- though I find it hard to believe she’d be anything less than pragmatic. In her way she’s as single-minded as Maedhros. This puts it out of my hands and I’m not about to lose sleep over it.”

Outrage made the world seem solid once again. “You can’t ignore this. It’s kinslaying...” 

“How many times and how many ways do you want to say that?” Gil-galad snapped. “I know what it is and in your place I’d have done the same. I’ve never had a problem with self defence --- when I have to pass sentence on that I always try for leniency. The only reason kinslaying became such a specific legal issue is because in the early days it was the only sure way to keep the Sindar from going after Fëanorian Noldor. Same applied to anyone who had to cross the Ice and still held a grudge about the boat burning. This way they had no excuse for dealing their own kind of justice.” 

“It is the most reprehensible thing an elf can do,” Erestor said, the words coming by rote, something he had been taught as a child and never lost.

Gil-galad shrugged. “I can think of a few worse, but that’s just me. I know I’d be in the minority if you went down to the courtyard now and took a vote. I’ve gone to some trouble to make sure of that – it lends itself to a peaceful realm.” He fell silent, lost in thought and drinking his brandy. Erestor let him, busy drawing warmth from the brandy and the cloak, which was soft and thick and smelled faintly of Gil. He was beyond fear now: what was about to happen would happen. The things he had feared most, Gil finding out about Annatar, about Badger, had come and gone.

“I think – the distance you’ve put between us since you got back? I think we have to maintain that.”

Erestor looked up, as startled by this as by Gil’s attitude to the killing of elf by elf. “I don’t understand...?”

“You’ve been moving around the palace like a ghost, avoiding the south shore where you can, and this is the first time we’ve been alone together since your return. People are talking – I’d guess the odds fall even between you having a thing with the musician and me having lost interest. I’d like to see more of you, I’ve missed you, but --- things like staying the night aren’t wise. Not that I’m saying you necessarily want to,” he added hastily, moved by whatever it was he saw in Erestor’s face. “If this came out, about the dark elf, and there was any suspicion I knew, it wouldn’t sit well. One rule for everyone else, another for my lover. And no one would trust my justice in it either, short of me exiling you to the eastern desert.”

“Not now, I hope.” The words came court-smooth, automatic. The last thing on his mind had been the possibility of him and Gil being lovers again and the stab of something close to fear at the thought put him off balance. “There’s quite a lot of activity going on there that would be unhealthy for a lone elf. And yes, I agree – I’m not the ideal bedmate now, am I?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Res.”

“Like what?” 

“Like – that.” Gil-galad came over to the divan and sank down next to him. Erestor forced himself not to tense up. “Like sex was all it was about and your suitability just ran out. We’re friends, it’s always been entirely more than that.”

“It has, yes.” Erestor focused on keeping his breathing steady. Sex was not a subject he was ready for, it was tied up in flame-shot darkness with Annatar and the things that had happened in that room. “I never thought to come back and pick up where we left off, not after so long. Don’t concern yourself over it. And you’re right, too much time alone together isn’t good, people are certainly watching.”

“I’ve offended you.” Gil-galad said, troubled. “It came out wrong. I’m trying to be practical here.”

Erestor told himself firmly to get a grip on himself. Gil could have exiled him, instead he was applying a common sense solution which was the one he wanted anyhow. Surely? “Not in the least, you just put me in touch with reality. I was so worried about having to lie to you that I paid less attention to how closely interested parties would be watching what happened after I got ho – got back.”

There was nothing to say to that and Gil-galad kept quiet. The wind gusted past outside, rattling the shutters, otherwise the room was still. Erestor felt strange – a bit lost, a bit empty, but not inclined to do anything about either. After a while there was movement beside him and fingers began toying with a lock of his hair. He turned, found Gil-galad watching him, frowning. 

He forced a smile. “It’s all right, truly. You’re keeping my guilty secret, and I’m grateful. No inclination to take up desert living or wander alone like Maglor, if that’s what he’s doing. And I never really thought things would go back to being as they were. Time moves on and – things have happened in my life, perhaps I’ve changed too much.” He put up a hand, touched the fingers around which his hair was twined. “It’s all right, Gil. It’s just been a bit emotional and I feel drained right now.”

“I thought we’d be as we were once you’d had time to settle back in and pick up the threads,” Gil-galad said quietly. “It never occurred to me we wouldn’t. We’ve been together since I was a landless king pushed back onto an island on the edge of Beleriand and living under my foster father’s authority. There’s no one else left to tell me not to be an ass...”

Erestor sighed, leaned his head against Gil-galad’s shoulder. “Sorry. I’m just – mixed signals, I know. I am always available when you want someone to call you an ass, I promise. Just not sure I have much else for anyone right now. And that includes Lindir, in spite of what you and everyone else seems to think. That’s just – shared experience speaking, someone who knows where I’ve been. Though there too, it doesn’t hurt for people to assume.”

Gil-galad’s head rested against his, cheek to his hair. “I suppose it doesn’t, no.”

They sat like that for a while, not talking, then there was a knock at the door and Gil-galad rose and was halfway across the room before calling for whoever it was to enter. A young maid hurried in, ducked her head. “I was sent to see if you’d like the fire lit, Sire?” she said a little breathlessly. 

Gil-galad looked at the hearth as though he’d not noticed it before. “I suppose you may as well get it going,” he said. “Cheer the room up a little. You’re new, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

Erestor half listened as Gil-galad chatted to the maid, got her name, details about her family, how long she’d been working for him now. He finished the brandy and put the tumbler down on an end table. The table was new and had a green tile inset in the centre to protect the wood from drips. He got up, waited to be noticed. 

“Sorry, Erestor. Didn’t mean to keep you.” The tone was brisk and pleasant, with no hint at what had gone before. “You’ll be wanting to get on your way now.”

“If you don’t mind, Sire. It’s getting late.”

“Not at all. We’re riding tomorrow after lunch. Join us, people keep asking where you are.”

Erestor gave his best court smile. “I’d be delighted, Sire. And thank you for your kindness tonight, it’s much appreciated.”

“Not at all. I’m glad we got that sorted out. Have a good night.”

The maid was listening avidly, storing the snatch of conversation to repeat later. Touching circled fingers to his forehead, Erestor sketched the smallest of bows to his king and saw himself out. 

Habit took him back towards the courtyard or more likely to the hall, which was where everyone moved to when the weather turned, but he had no wish for company or more to drink and the last person he wanted to run into was Lindir, which was a first in its own right. Instead he went back out to the garden and followed the path down to the wall overlooking the harbour where Lindir had found him on his return to Mithlond. He leaned his arms on it and looked out to sea for a long time, the wind tossing his hair around and striking clean through the heavy silk. 

When he had finished reliving memories of Balar and the early days of Lindon - late night conversations and heated kisses, Gil with eyes that were not tired and whose smile could light up a room - he drew in a deep breath of salt air, slowly breathed out the promise of the past, and took himself off to bed. 

There were no dreams.

~~o~~


	5. Fate's Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor has a new assignment and Galadriel meets a king.

_The Wood_

It was mid morning and the birds were calling softly to each other in the little glade on the edge of the forest. Trees made tree-talk, too softly even for elven ears, and the river was an ever-present voice. Galadriel sat on the ground creating a design with pebbles from the river, balancing them one upon the other, minutely grading them for size and colour. She was picking through the greys, long fingers selecting, discarding, as she sought the darkest in that specific shade. The process was painstaking, but time was a commodity she had in goodly supply at the moment.

Stone art was a children’s pursuit back in Aman, but with age came other skills and what began as an exercise in design and observation could, with training, become something far more. She placed the grey stone where it almost but not quite closed a gap and something moved on the spring-scented air in the clearing, something that was the mental equivalent of the first whiff of smoke on a still day. Galadriel’s lips curved softly, almost smiling. She had not lost her touch. 

The energy changed and she knew without looking that Celebrían was back from the river. A glance showed her, fully clad and wrapped from neck to ankle in her cloak. Galadriel bit off a laugh even as the hint of power faded back into the earth. They used a small, secluded pool to bathe in, and not only did Bri not trust the bushes to screen her modesty, she also insisted on hanging two cloaks tent-like from branches for added privacy and kept various items of clothing on at all times. Galadriel scandalised her by splashing around naked with nothing but her long hair to shield her from sight. 

Sitting down hard on the bed of moss and reeds they had made, Celebrían started to dry the ends of her hair with the only towel they had between them, one of Celeborn’s rare oversights. She was scowling and her movements were jerky, discontented. “I am so bored, Nana. We are going to be here forever and ever, we will watch the Last Battle from under these trees.” 

Galadriel smiled down at her stone creation. “Well, look at it this way. If that were to happen, at least we’d be well out of harm’s way? You could tell your grandchildren how most of their relatives were up there fighting the good fight.”

“Won’t have any grandchildren,” Celebrían grumbled. “Not if we’re stuck here till the end of days. I will never meet my soulmate so I won’t ever have children.”

“No?” Galadriel asked innocently. “But dear, we are surrounded by elves - brave, strong warrior elves at that. What about that nice young captain who told us to wait here? What was his name again? Haldir? I thought he looked over-long at you. He had very pretty hair – what there was of it.”

“Mother!” Celebrían was outraged. “His hair is not pretty at all, and he was most certainly not looking at me. And he was rude to us.”

Galadriel changed position, curling her legs to the left this time, and stretched to ease the tension in her back from bending over the stones. “Oh, I don’t think he was rude really. Firm, yes, but he spoke to us in his king’s name, so he had to do his best to sound determined.”

“Not contaminate their wood, he said…”

“Yes, I know.” Galadriel said cheerfully. “And you were furious. But he said it so well, don’t you think? And that sounded like Amdír’s choice of words, not his, and a pointed choice at that. No, Haldir did his job, Bri. And we must do ours.”

“Our job?” Celebrían looked around the little clearing as though expecting to see a pile of mending or a waiting loom or some other such definitively female occupation. “What is that?”

“Waiting,” Galadriel said simply, picking out a pure white stone this time. “We wait.”

_Mithlond_

“I’ve read through the final batch, they’re over there on the table.”

Glorfindel stood in a pool of sunlight over by the window looking out at the bay, a hand resting casually on the sill. The sun lit his hair to molten gold and it made him look alien, unworldly. Some days Erestor was more aware of the quiet, coiled strength in the newcomer than others, and this was one such day. 

There was a stack of documents on the desk which Erestor turned minimally to look at titles. “Thank you, it’s been a great help. I hope you found something to interest you in that last lot, most of it was dry as Harad.”

“I’d quite like to visit Harad sometime – after the war, of course.” Glorfindel didn’t turn from whatever he was watching out there, but he sounded amused.

Erestor joined him at the window. “Hot, dry, dangerous. A culture ancient in mortal terms, many layered. Politics like that game they’ve given us, chess – devious, potentially fatal. Lots of colour and history… Yes, it would be worth a visit after the war. What are you watching?”

He had to look up as he spoke. Glorfindel was Gil-galad’s height though not as broadly built, a presence but without that same sense of filling the space around him. Grey-blue eyes caught his for a moment, then moved back to the bay beyond. “The Númenórean has returned.” His sparse, eloquent movement of fingers and wrist accompanying the words spoke of royalty and Aman-born nobility, whose graceful gestures Erestor sometimes tried, with middling success, to duplicate. Gil-galad used them, as did the Lady. Even Gildor did – especially Gildor, Finwë’s grandson, who wore his royalty with the unconscious ease of a comfortable old cloak. 

His mind had not used to skip and wander in this way before. Impatient at himself, Erestor pulled his attention back and watched the Númenórean ship coming in to dock at Círdan’s haven, guided by a pilot boat from the harbour. The sails had already been lowered so they could bring her in under oar. “That was quicker than I expected,” he remarked. “Either they had an easy time coming up the coast or he’s in a hurry to get home.”

Glorfindel dipped his head briefly. “That is likely. I doubt he will stay longer than to take on food and water – and the king’s emissary, of course. He seemed a man of his word.”

“Círdan liked him, and that’s not easily won. Have you any idea who His Majesty plans to send? Arvarad says he’s been tight lipped on the subject.” He had an idea they talked, Gil and the Reborn. Gil-galad was hard to predict, but he might tell an advisor sent by the Valar things he would not feel ready to share with his administrative assistant. The chances of Glorfindel sharing such a confidence were slim, but Erestor was a firm believer in there being no harm in trying. It wouldn’t be the first time surprise had caused someone to let slip information that would otherwise have been dearly bought.

Predictably Glorfindel gave a small shrug. “He was looking at a few names, that’s all I know. I assume he’s decided by now.”

“You wouldn’t consider going to Númenor yourself?” Erestor was curious mainly, he doubted Glorfindel would have been an obvious choice.

Glorfindel shook his head almost regretfully. “He mentioned it, but I pointed out that my brief involved offering what aid I could on this shore. They went to some trouble to get me here and nothing was said about travelling West again, which I think the Mighty would see as outside of their charge to me. Anyhow, it’s no great distance from Númenor to Alqualondë and my lady – it would be a hard thing to be so near and yet so far.”

Ah. This was new. “I hadn’t realised you were married, my lord. It must have been a hard parting. Your lady is Telerin then?” He wondered how her parents felt about it, considering the history between the Telerin of Alqualondë and the Noldor.

Glorfindel’s face grew grave. “We’re not married yet, though we had the day chosen – and for the second time, too. The first was interrupted by Fëanor’s business.”

“You had to leave her behind too? Like Finrod?” Erestor vaguely recalled a story he had heard in childhood about Finrod, how he had been forced to leave his heart’s love in Aman.

“Something like that. Elenwë was my cousin, someone needed to go along to watch out for her and the child,” Glorfindel said quietly. “I thought Turukáno would be too busy, he was always a perfectionist. Of course none of us knew how bad the Ice would be. In any event, there was no welcome for one of the Noldor, not while the old people who remembered life in the East were still explaining how to bury the dead… We met outside the city, there was only a short time for me to tell her what I was doing and why and Elsúrië said she would wait, she understood... possibly more than she did this time.”

His face changed while he spoke about her, the lines softening, his eyes hazy with distance. Erestor had seen Gil-galad’s eyes follow Glorfindel a few times with unmistakeable interest and wondered if he knew about the girl across the water; he assumed he did. Well, there was no harm in looking, he supposed. He looked at Lindir, who was easy on the eye, and that wasn’t going anywhere save for that one chaotic night. 

“When you get back,” Erestor said, his voice soft to match the expression on Glorfindel’s face, “perhaps you shouldn’t take time to set dates and get families organised. Just bind and have done with it before anyone can find another urgent reason for you to leave.”

Glorfindel grinned fleetingly. “That’s advice I could have used when I left the Halls. I’ll keep it in mind, Erestor. Thank you.”

Erestor nodded, smiled. As one they turned back to watch the ship dock. “I wonder who it’ll be,” Erestor murmured, more to himself than Glorfindel. “To see Andor – that would be the experience of a lifetime, even for an elf.”

“We’ll all know soon enough,” Glorfindel said. “As soon as Gil – or more likely Círdan – has words with the captain, I’d imagine.”

\-----o

Erestor resisted the urge to pace. A page, not someone from Arvarad’s office but one of the house pages, had come to tell him he was wanted by the king and would he please go up to the little reception room just off Gil-galad’s private office and wait. He had duly done so, long enough ago that he was starting to wonder if there had been a mistake or if this was someone’s idea of a joke.

His surroundings in themselves were not troublesome. This was the room where Gil-galad received visiting envoys and the like for less public exchanges and was furnished accordingly in sumptuous style with a good deal of brocade and velvet. If anything it was overdone: he recalled the understated elegance that had been the mark of Galadriel’s home in Ost-in-Edhil. The window looked out onto the side garden which lay in shadow as dusk drew in, colours fading in its wake. It looked rather as he had felt since his return.

He was almost ready to go and find someone, anyone, to see if he should stay, when the door opened and Gil-galad came in. He was dressed informally and carried a scroll in one hand. He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded a greeting. “Erestor. Why did they have you wait here?”

“I was told --- well I suppose the page didn’t think it appropriate for me to wait in your office.” He was glad he hadn’t been pacing.

“No, that makes sense. Sorry I kept you, I was talking with Círdan and Callonui. Círdan isn’t a happy man.”

There was just a hint of diffidence in both their voices. Erestor had attended another musical evening and a casual dinner, gone hunting once and been part of a group walking with the king in the garden, but this was the first time they had been alone since Erestor had told him the full story of Annatar and about Badger. Neither a kiss nor a touch were appropriate greetings now, but they would never be just casual acquaintances: the shadow of past intimacy would always overlay the present. 

“Not the first time he’s been unhappy and it won’t be the last,” Erestor ventured, trying to find the right balance, the new lines. 

Gil-galad shrugged ruefully. “He’ll get over it, yes. He never seems to get the idea that he can’t always be right.” He glanced at the scroll again, tapped it against his hand. “Sorry - I need to put this away before I leave it somewhere and forget where.” 

He went through to his office, leaving Erestor to watch out the window as two of the grounds staff passed through the garden, lighting lanterns. He remembered the exquisite Fëanorian lamps of Ost-in-Edhil, shedding light that sparkled and glowed throughout the city and closed his eyes for a moment, swept suddenly by an unexpected depths of sadness for all that had been lost. He opened them again at the sound of a door closing and footsteps. Gil-galad came in frowning and rubbing the spot where the circlet tended to bother him near the end of the day. He looked tired, Erestor thought, and in no hurry to get down to details. He wondered idly if something had happened and he was about to be exiled after all.

“I want you to lead a delegation to Númenor.” There was no preamble; the words came out briskly, with no more drama than as if he had asked Erestor to ride down to Forlond and deliver a letter. 

Startled, Erestor struggled to get the words out. “You --- Númenor? Me?” A little voice asked if Glorfindel had known and he told it firmly that was none of their business, Gil-galad was free to confide in or seek advice from whomever he chose. He no longer asked Erestor, but that was the way of the world. “You want me to go to Númenor for you?”

“You’re slow today. That’s what I said, yes. Go, state our case, be persuasive – you can be damn persuasive when your mind’s set on it.”

Erestor’s recent past was dubious, there was Annatar and the matter of Badger and the chance of it coming back to haunt not just him but Mithlond in general, and there was no pretence of him retaining his old place in the inner circle. Even if he had, he would not have expected this: he was an investigator – all right, a spy – not a diplomat. There were a dozen questions jostling for first place, but they all came down to one word. “Why?”

Gil-galad’s eyebrows rose, he was plainly out of the habit of having an instruction questioned. But Erestor had always been the one to ask why, and if that was lost in the morass of the past few decades, he thought he might as well leave court.

He withstood a kingly glare before Gil-galad relaxed, a half smile tugging at his lips. “You always have to analyse things, don’t you? Why? Because you understand the urgency of this as well as anyone, better than most. Because royalty won’t unnerve or intimidate you, you’ve travelled with Gildor and served Galadriel. Because you can make our cause compelling, you can make it their cause.” He paused, his eyes on Erestor’s face. “And – because I trust you. There are very few people I would let speak for me and you’re the only one who can make this trip.”

Erestor tried to get his mind around the breadth of the responsibility – and the trust - that he was being offered. “Gil, I don’t know. I won’t know where to start. And let’s not forget, I’m no one, I have no title, no status...”

Gil-galad shook his head, interrupting the rush of words. “You don’t need a title, you’re my envoy, that’s all that matters. You can present yourself however you see fit, the main thing is you’re there at my bidding and in my name. There is nothing complicated about this. You’ll spend the next few days studying everything we know about Númenor, you’ll organise a wardrobe that looks fit for a king’s emissary, and I’ll throw in a few gifts for the queen and her co-regent – he’s her nephew, apparently he does the real work. Then you’ll sail west, explain our need, remind them the treaty was never actually rescinded, and come home.”

Erestor mentally shook himself and focused. “How do we get home?” 

“Hopefully with the Númenórean navy,” Gil-galad said, his voice grim. “Don’t worry, they won’t keep you there. If nothing comes of it I’ll have Círdan send someone for you. Just – it can’t afford to fail. That’s why I want you doing this. We’re outnumbered and if – when – Sauron’s army reaches the mountains, I’m not sure how long we can hold them.”

No one said this publicly, of course, but it lay heavy on everyone’s minds. Erestor gave the rote answer rather than engage with the reality of a vast army possibly even now approaching Lindon. “We’ll hold them for as long as we have to.” 

Gil-galad winced. “Quite. Well, I wanted action - I’m likely to get my share of fighting before the end at any rate.”

“They have a saying in Harad: be careful what you wish for, you might find it.”

“Very eastern, yes,” Gil-galad said dryly. His body language remained strong and confident, a Noldor prince trained from childhood for leadership, but his eyes were deathly tired. Erestor wondered what that kind of responsibility felt like – a whole kingdom’s survival on your shoulders, your people’s future dependant on your judgement. Judgement that was sending a kinslayer - Sauron’s former bed mate, no less - over the sea in search of help. He could not be sleeping well at night.

And there was nothing Erestor could do about that, not anymore. “When do I leave? And who else are you sending?”

Gil-galad moved past him to the window and looked down at the garden as Erestor had done earlier. “We’re still finalising that. You’ll leave in a couple of days. Gimilkhâd has to provision the ship so we’ll try and string it out as long as we can, give you time to prepare. There’s not much anyone can help you with – a few basics from sailors who broke the rules and stopped off on the way back from Tol Eressëa, a couple of essays I wrote based on what I could learn from Aldarion, that kind of thing. It’ll all be out of date by now, except for the geography which is probably wrong, Círdan won’t be much use to you, he asked about ships.”

“Of course he did.” Erestor dredged up a smile. “I suppose my best source will be the captain himself then. Need to make do with what we have. It’ll be all right, they won’t expect too much of me.”

“I need them to be impressed,” Gil-galad said quickly. “I need us to seem worth the alliance…”

“I know that, Gil,” Erestor said softly. “I will impress them into the ground, I promise you. Just wish we’d shown more interest in what was going on over there. Down south too. I’ll need anything we have on their settlements.”

“You’ll have it. And I know you will.” Gil-galad stepped back from the window and reached a hand to Erestor’s cheek, cupping it lightly. “You’ve never broken your word to me and you won’t now.”

His touch was warm, grounding. Erestor took an unsteady breath. “I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened, I’m truly sorry.”

Gil-galad caught his arm and pulled him into a sudden rough hug. “Shut up, all right? We’ve talked it through. It happened, stop saying sorry. ”

Familiar strength enveloped Erestor, but the barrier between himself and the rest of the world held and he was unable to sink into it as he had in the past. He shook his head, more to clear it than in denial, but Gil-galad read it as such and released him, stepping back so that scarlet velvet framed him, kingly indeed.

Erestor reached out to him instinctively, then let his hand drop. What did he think he could do? He had nothing to give right now, just his word. “It’s hard to grasp you still trust me, that’s all. I thought our friendship would be dead and buried once you knew the truth.”

“If the friendship was dead, you’d not be going to Númenor, believe me.” Gil-galad’s tone was even, but his body was stiff with the awkwardness of rejection. Erestor wanted to explain, but he lacked the means or even the frame of reference. 

“You’ll not regret it,” he said instead. “For our survival’s sake, and – and because I don’t have words for what I owe you. Anyhow. You haven’t told Captain Gimilkhâd yet?”

A pause, heartbeats long, and then they were back on solid ground. “No. We’re having a formal dinner tomorrow night. I’ll do it then, make it a public declaration. He’ll have those two young lords he went to collect with him. With luck they’ll be friendly – or curious. Give you some court background before you arrive.”

Erestor nodded. “I’ll do my best.” 

Later, back in his rooms, he wondered who else had been on the list from which he was the only person available. Galadriel, perhaps, or Elrond or Gildor – though of the three, only Elrond could travel so far west. Círdan was no diplomat and in any case was needed here. And there had been Glorfindel. It hardly mattered, it was Erestor who had been selected to go and plead their case and reinforce a treaty that had been old when the ruling queen’s grandfather was a child.

He felt empty, not with the sense of disconnection that never quite left him but something even deeper, sadder. He had been brought up close to something he used to take for granted that was now over, nothing remaining but friendship. 

Erestor wondered how long it took to reach Númenor. Adventure was all well and good, but he had never understood the Telerin passion for boats and the sea.

_The Wood_

The stone puzzle had grown, it had levels now and little paths or tendrils leading off randomly. It had taken over an entire corner of the grove, and Galadriel occupied herself with extending and adjusting it, each section answering to the light of a certain time of the day. Celebrían looked at it with an expression that said she thought her mother had lost her mind, but asked no questions: clearly parental insanity was something to be suffered in silence. Her mother hoped that when she was older and had a little training, she would be more conscious of latent power. To Galadriel the stone maze had the destructive potential of an unlit bonfire.

Their watchers – she could not think of them as guards, it was too harsh a word - brought food morning and night: bread and fruit, stewed vegetables, and a honeyed drink that Galadriel found too sweet but drank anyway. Otherwise they were left to their own devices. Celebrían unpacked, sorted and repacked their bags twice and was currently looking for other ways to fight off boredom. She had tried talking to the Silvans, but to no avail; they were polite but distant, not prepared to engage in conversation. Galadriel thought Haldir might have, but he had not been back since delivering his message.

It was early afternoon, quiet and bee-drowsy under the trees. Celebrían was taking a nap, and Galadriel was busy with her pebbles again. She was so engrossed that it took a while to realise the air was cold and the light had begun to change. It became silver and misty, the dappled sunlight growing hazy-soft. The birds ceased their endless calling. After a quick glance around the grove, she kept her head bent over her pebbles and waited. There was nothing yet to see, just the pale grass and her sleeping child curled in the shelter of a tree’s broad trunk, but she could feel the energy, what mortals called magic, seeping in between the trees like fog.

One moment there was nothing, the next she could sense someone there, watching her. Keeping very still, she felt for the earth energy beneath her and closed her mind firmly around the Ring. The clearing was unnaturally quiet. She wondered if his guards were watching as well, but somehow she doubted it. The sense of other eyes on her had faded with the misting of the light. It was as though they were alone in the world now, she, Celebrían, and the unseen watcher.

She picked up a pebble with a reddish tinge, studied it, tried it against two or three others before coming to a decision and placing it on one of the trailing lines leading away from the main structure she was building. She chose the next one, more pink in this…

“Word has it that Finwë was king over the sea before the darkness came and his blood sank into the ground of the Undying Lands. The Iron King over the mountains takes his right from that line, it is said. As do you. What do you here in my wood, daughter of the Summerlands? There is no place for you here.”

Galadriel glanced up almost casually, placed her pebble with care upon the first one and nodded. “It would seem there is no place for me anywhere then,” she said calmly. “My city was burned and the road to the Land of Song is overrun by enemies. I came, a harmless woman with her child, to beg shelter from the only one of my kind within reach.”

“There is nothing harmless about you, woman. You carry peril about you like a cloak. it is a part of your blood, of the race from which you have sprung. You may try and hide it, but I smell power on you, dark and potent.” 

He came further into the grove, the diffused light gilding hair, flashing off jewellery. His hair, an unlikely chestnut with streaks of brass, was long and curly. He was not tall, and looked partly though not wholly Sindarin, with a narrow, clever face, a wry mouth and slanting eyes. He was hung about with strings of glass and gems, crystals and beads. There were bracelets on his wrists, a crown of leaves on his head, and he wore a grey tunic over a dull green robe, a belt of golden links about his waist. Unexpectedly his feet were bare. 

Galadriel rose slowly, careful not to look in Celebrían’s direction. She wished she had a sword. There was something quietly unnerving about this new arrival. The dagger at her ankle pressed and called for her hand but she ignored it. “I am perilous when threatened, yes,” she agreed. “I am Galadriel, Finarfin’s daughter, wife to Celeborn of Doriath…”

“There is no more of Doriath,” he interrupted, his accented Sindarin light and lilting as the nearby stream. “The land beyond the Girdle fell long past to your kind and to the Naugrim. Any title your mate holds is empty, meaningless.”

“Even so, he carries it with pride in memory of his mother’s home and the land he defended long and hard under the stars,” she retorted. “Beyond that, he has no further need of title; he is Celeborn, of Elu Thingol’s line.”

He was watching her, his head tilted slightly. His eyes were pale, perhaps green, perhaps blue, she couldn’t be sure. “Elu Thingol is no more, nor is the Great Mother of Menegroth. This is another time, uncertain. There is me, there is Oropher beyond the trees beside the river, and then there is your king in the narrow land the sea left beside the blue mountains. We are the new kings, Oropher and I, we guide our people and keep them safe from the intrigues of the Sea People.”

The game could go on and on, round and round, and she had no patience for it; it had been a long month. “We have not met, but I think you are Amdír then, lord of this wood?”

He turned in a tinkle of stones and metal, the ornaments glittering in the strange light. “Amdír I am to some, though at times I am Malgalad. Lord indeed of this wood I am, and I have already said there is no place for you here, neither you nor that which you carry about you. The trees whisper to me of you, the grass sings softly. This is a land of peace, Noldor woman. My people are the quiet ones of the land, those who the seas did not drown, those who were beneath the interest of the Mighty. We live outside the darkness of your kind, bide our own time, keep our own customs. I will not allow you to open my land to war.”

Galadriel nodded, her eyes on him while a part of her reached carefully for the edge of the little well of power she had been building, its tendrils and arches siphoning energy from the land, the trees, even from the sun, the watchfire of the Noldor in those first days in the new land. It was all ready. In childhood trying to tame the power of Arda had been a game she and Finrod delighted in, but childhood was long past and since then it had merged with the art she had learned from Melian, with a few added touches of her own. The power she could now tap was potentially lethal.

Amdír seemed to be waiting. She wondered how old he was, where he had been born, which of his parents had gifted him that Nandor colouring. She would be able to ask later. “I was here once before,” she told him quietly. “Then I was shown hospitality and allowed to explore your wood. This time – this time I come in need, seeking shelter for myself and my child. Would you truly turn her away? At least let her stay, for her father’s sake.”

“And if I do not?”

The air tingled, drew tight about the glade. Celebrían was sleeping too deeply, lulled by a glamour woven in light and air, potent but lacking the power to ensnare one who had studied at Melian’s feet. “If you do not, I will answer you magic for magic. What you sense is but a small part of my makeup. Finrod Rune-singer was my brother, and I have songs of power at my calling.” 

The earth energy rose a little as she spoke, tendrils caressing her, and she drew it down firmly. “But I would rather we talk as two sensible beings should. These are dangerous, perhaps deadly times, and we should stand together against the darkness creeping across the land. The trees speak to you? Then you should know I need a very dark wood to hide within, that there are some things that should not fall into the wrong hands.”

“And if those hands come seeking your secret?” Amdír asked coolly. “All your power would not be enough to keep that child safe then. My wood would burn, and still they would come.”

“Your wood is old and wise,” she countered. “The trees would hinder every step, the undergrowth would give cover to your people. They would not burn the wood, they need me alive. There are questions their lord would have for me.” Unbidden a vision of searing flame rose in front of her and pain scalded her throat. She breathed in sharply and it was gone.

He was watching her, curious. “You see things, Noldor woman? Things to come?”

She shrugged, it was a familiar question. “Sometimes. Things near, things far in the future. Sometimes things past. Sometimes --- sometimes I see things happening across the leagues to those I love. I saw my brothers die. I saw my uncle, Fingolfin the King, fall.”

Eerie silence, devoid of birdsong, settled over the glade while he thought about this. “That must be a hard gift to bear,” he decided finally. “I have known only a handful who have the Sight, and seldom in such strength. Look for me. What does your Sight tell you about the wood? Not the words you think I would like to hear, mind. The truth.”

The truth? What was truth, what reality had the strength to outrun the darkness? She cast around but there was no channel to draw on while she delved into the deep place where the Knowing lived. She shook her head. “I need water, quiet, to try and look, and even then deliberate scrying is only sometimes useful. Mainly it comes to me and I focus it. I – can tell you I do not see the mark of flames upon your wood except perhaps the trees along the very border. And that I am here early, but there will be others from Ost-in-Edhil. Will you turn us all away with no haven within reach?”

The picture that rose up before her without warning was crystal clear: a deep, green valley, one she had seen before, with the mountains towering snow capped around it and a river rushing, its voice mingling with children’s laughter. It was there, then gone again. When she had leisure, she would meditate on it, try and bring it back, track the path…. He was watching her, intent. She shook her head. “Some other place. A valley. A haven. I’ve seen it before but I have no idea where it is. For now, this is all we have. And you are all we have. Will you sentence us to death at the hands of the easterners?”

“Would you force my hand, Noldor woman? You and that little fire you are drawing from the trees and the ground - my land, my trees?”

Galadriel looked at him, at the way he stood out against the trees as though they were a painted backdrop of the kind used in theatres – when would she ever see a play again? She took a deep breath, and allowed the simmering threads to slip from her fingers. “This is your wood and you are king of its people, yes. Though not of the wood, the wood rules itself, as is right and proper,” she told him. “No force, just – please, at least let Celeborn’s daughter stay. She is more Sindar than Noldor and not yet grown.”

She waited, leaving her mind empty and calm. What happened next would happen, and she would decide then what her next move should be. Time hung heavy amongst the trees, and then the light started losing that silver hue and she could hear birdsong again. The air warmed, and Celebrían stirred in her sleep, murmured something. 

Amdír crossed the glade on bare, silent feet till he stood no more than arm’s length from her. She was taller, but he had a stature that had nothing to do with height. “I know a place where the power of the earth gathers and near it lies a stream. Perhaps there you will see what the future holds for my people?”

“We can stay?” she asked, meeting his eyes, holding them. They were the green of the sunlit sea, she realised, an unlikely shade for a woodland lord. 

He nodded, retuning her scrutiny, and she wondered what he saw and what he made of her. “You and yours may remain here, princess from across the water,” he said at last. “It would be ill-mannerly of me to refuse a child of Elu Thingol’s line, and as you say, some things are best not left where dark forces might find them. You and those of your people you can speak for may stay.” The lines of his face set determinedly and he moved a step closer. “In return I ask that not by word nor deed do you make me regret my hospitality. Now – wake the child and scatter your stones. It is time to go.”

~~~u~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andor – Land of Gift  
> Callonui - the senior general remaining in Lindon


	6. Fortresses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel takes a walk, Elrond and Celeborn have unwelcome guests, and Glorfindel is in the right place - again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. Got swallowed up by the December and February swaps, dealt with life, finally got back on the horse. Normal programming is now resumed.

_The Wood_

The living wood wrapped itself around her, tree upon tree crowding in, blotting out the sun. The leaves whispered to one another and branches creaked and crackled in added emphasis. Some of their intent she could follow, for there had been trees enough in Doriath and Melian had taken the learning she’d had from Yavanna and focused it so that she could interpret the softer voices of these children of Endórë, so unlike the trees of Aman. Even so, this wood chose not to speak to her. Not yet.

Doriath had been Melian’s own, shaped and tamed by her will, but this forest was tamed by no elf. It grew thick and watchful, neither a part of the trees to the north nor the greater forest to the west. Galadriel had come here seeking a fortress, a place so impenetrable that the enemy would pass on by, knowing it not worth the time and manpower to attempt, but that would only be possible if the wood willingly stood as a barricade against outsiders, every tree vigilant. She knew some day this would be vital, but the reason lay just beyond the edge of her Sight. For now this future bulwark was just a great, whispering mass of trees and she felt stifled by them, much as she had been by the stone walls of Menegroth or Finrod’s Nargothrond.

She wondered what Celeborn would have made of the wood, and it of him. Celebrían’s first responses had been ambivalent, and the rope bridge across the river had not endeared it to her. She had followed Amdír, crossing just ahead of her mother, with a set, grim face old beyond her years. Galadriel, with memories still fresh of the bridge in Khazad-dum and how she had left the child to cope alone, tried to reassure her this time, only for Celebrían to tell her in a distant voice that it was no matter and would just have to be done. An intent stare said more clearly than words that she was to stop fussing.

The fact was she had not been embarrassed to admit fear in front of Thorhof because their host in the dwarf realm was someone she liked and trusted, but her own kind were another matter entirely: it was mainly pride that straightened her shoulders and kept her chin resolutely up. Galadriel would have liked to believe the new-found determination was due to her lecture on how the Noldor never showed fear, but suspected it was more to do with personal issues, namely the fact that Haldir had crossed the river with them. Celebrían was of an age where she was not yet sure of the opposite sex and the admiring glances she was starting to draw left her self-conscious and defensive. Galadriel was in no hurry to see that change.

The main settlement, when they reached it, was as quaint as she remembered. The Nandor of the wood still lived in little woven shelters joined together to make communal structures and had encouraged edible plants and herbs to grow nearby without overtly farming the land, just as they had persuaded little rivulets off the Celebrant to flow towards their living areas and the nearby ablution place with the sun-warmed water and smooth rocks. They had also worked fallen branches together into a fence around a pasture for their small herd of treasured horses. There was not much space for a horse in a forest, Amdír told her, amused at her surprise to find so few. These were kept for travel beyond the wood’s eaves, something which happened ever less now the troubles had come.

She had learned about things like the lack of travel a few days after their arrival, when Amdír took her up a rope ladder to near the top of a great tree, where a platform was anchored, offering a view across an ocean of green to yet another green sea marking the horse plains beyond the forest, and the sparkle of sunlight on the Anduin. Galadriel drank in the view in silence, reaching out to it, getting its sense. Nenya had half roused but she quieted the questing fingers of energy at once: they were too close to Amdir.

Now she walked alone amongst the trees, touching as she went, her hands passing over bark both rough and smooth. She saw no one, although she knew they were watching her. They had been watched ever since they arrived, the Noldor from Eregion come with the threat of war at their backs, though to her face she was treated with the uttermost respect: she was the wife of Celeborn of Doriath and the mother of his child. Her royal pedigree was meaningless amongst these people. To them the Noldor were all the same, bright-eyed outsiders who had brought the sky lights and warfare the like of which had never been seen before, people who rode tall horses with saddles and iron shoes, fought with the straight, two-handed sword, and conducted incomprehensible feuds amongst themselves.

As she walked she could feel the pulse of the earth energy around her. Nenya knew it was there too, tasting it with a breathless wonder that put her in mind of a child – but then the ring was new and still learning about the world. Lines of power shimmered beneath her feet, swirling, spiralling, and somewhere lay a point where they crossed and blended. She knew it was there, would have known even without Amdír’s mention, but was unable to find it because the wood had its own power, its own strength, and was using it to mask the path to the well. Whether it was deliberate or simply the way things were she had no idea. She had done nothing to earn the wood’s enmity, but it too, like the Silvan folk, was watching her, assessing.

This thought led her to wonder if the trees grew completely wild and unguarded, because if not there might be another way to win their trust. She and Celeborn had once met two of the tree shepherds, great, long-limbed beings with piercing eyes under brows like shaggy bark and deep, slow voices. That had been further south and in a time when less open land had lain between the woods. She wondered if there were still Ents in Lindórinand; not only would she like to see them again, but they might even be willing to help. She could ask Amdír but the king told her what he wished and otherwise kept his own counsel. This was his kingdom and he was slow to share its secrets.

Still, at least he was letting them stay and was not completely opposed to extending his hospitality further. Watchers had brought word that, as she had expected, there were other Noldor heading towards Lindórinand. They travelled in small groups of two, four, five, the guards reported, and after taking himself off to walk amongst the trees and think, Amdír had said he would find the refugees a place once she had seen and vouched for them. Galadriel disliked the idea of vouching for people she had never before met, but he left her little choice but to agree and be prepared to resort to threats if necessary to prevent any incidents.

The sun had sunk lower, the signal that it was time to stop ruminating and go back: it was almost time for the evening meal. There were a string of communal fires around which food was shared out, and they were expected to eat with Amdír’s household. Celebrían had explained it all to her, rattling on about the clan setup and how you couldn’t just eat anywhere, and how certain people sat alongside one fire and not another. She would have to get her to explain that again slowly. Bri was already getting to know people and asking questions, and Galadriel had a feeling that soon all she need do to understand the social structure of Amdír’s people was ask her daughter. It was a disconcerting prospect.

It wasn’t long since they had left home and yet Celebrían had grown in that short while, she thought, turning to retrace her steps, her fingers caressing a beech, her mind automatically sending it her name and her liking. She was less shy, more certain of herself, of being liked and welcomed. Galadriel wished she could take credit for the change, but it had probably been in spite of her, not because. Smiling wryly she hurried her steps, casting around and finding the little path that would take her back to the living space and dinner. For now, she supposed this was home.

_The Valley_

The waning moon hung low in the sky when Elrond left the infirmary he had set up against the cliff in a corner well sheltered from the river spray. In the past two weeks the men had brought in a total of eleven wounded elves, seven of them warriors and one heavily pregnant refugee whose time was close and whose husband was missing although she swore he was still alive. The beginnings of an informal town was growing up against the cliff, occupied mainly by non-combatants. His soldiers were encamped closer to the barely accessible trail up to the moorland, while Celeborn’s people had taken up residence near the waterfall. Elrond put that down to Telerin blood and a love for water that tolerated mist and spray.

“Everything all right there?” Celeborn materialised out of the darkness beside him. Elrond, who had sensed him before he saw him, gave a half shrug. “Nothing that won’t mend except for that boy your people brought in last night. I’m not happy with his wounds, they had time to get infected before he was found. Otherwise everyone’s settled for the night. Héolystan’s likely to have her child in the next two or three days – just wish we could find the father for her.”

“If he’s alive he has to run into one of the patrols eventually,” Celeborn said. “They’re turning people up all the time.”

He seemed distracted and Elrond said as much as they strolled through the dark towards the improvised tents. Celeborn shook his head. “The night feels too still, that’s all. The same airlessness as before a storm. I’ll feel better once the patrol gets back.”

They sent men out at irregular intervals, day and night, to check the land above the cleft they sheltered in and make sure they were still alone. Like Celeborn, Elrond found it hard to relax till he had news of the world beyond. Tonight though... Celeborn had something, the night was too still. The air felt wrong in some indefinable way he had known without awareness till now. He started to listen for what was different, but then remembered that this was wrong. _Listen for what’s missing_ , he could almost hear Meadhros say. _When sounds that should be there are absent, then you know trouble looms._

The river was the same, the frogs called softly, the other night noises seemed right. There were the sounds of a settlement getting ready to turn in for the night: low voices, occasional laughter, the brief cry of a baby. There were no fires. Celeborn had advised against fire at night and it fitted with what Elrond recalled of making camp in unsecured territory, which was how Maedhros had defined any land beyond their ever-shrinking heartland.

Suddenly the comforting night sounds vanished into flat blackness and he was standing in swirling mist. Voices called, harsh, guttural, and strange beasts cried - no, not beasts, orcs. That was a hunting call. The earth beneath him began to vibrate to the march of a thousand booted feet. Now he could hear the river again, hear it rising, calling warning. The thrumming of his heart was so loud it threatened to drown out all other sounds, his stomach twisted and heaved and there was the bitter taste of bile in his mouth…Then the world swung back into view and he knew what had been missing - the trees were silent.

“Get them up!” Later he would smile at the look on Celeborn’s face: he had done the impossible and made Galadriel’s husband jump. “The warriors, yours, mine – get everyone up, reinforce the watch, every trail. Secure that crossing down the river… Now, do it _now_! Sauron’s army is coming. There’s no time to lose, no time left…”

Someone else might have argued. Celeborn gave him a hard look, then swung on his heel and was off across the rock and gravel and tufts of grass to where his followers were encamped, calling people out of tents and shelters as he passed. Elrond followed suit, forcing the residue of the Sight back and making his body obey. There was no time now for weakness and regrouping of strength now. He could almost smell the approaching army on the moist air. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

\-----o

“May as well allow fires,” Celeborn said with a shrug. It was the next evening and he was watching the sun sink behind the mountains. “It’s not as though they don’t know where we are now.”

Elrond nodded. “They followed someone back, didn’t they? I keep wondering who, everyone was so careful.”

“It just needed one spy, one lone watcher following a party of elves who had the look of people with a set destination. It had to happen sooner or later. They might even have seen us arrive, in fact that wouldn’t surprise me at all. We were a large party moving slowly with stretchered wounded. But we will never know and there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

Elrond wondered if anything ever unsettled the prince. Of course, he was married to Galadriel which in itself would call for sound nerves. Elrond didn’t know her well, but what he knew often left him distinctly uneasy. “So – we set cooking fires and just carry on as though there’s nothing amiss, as though there isn’t a besieging army encamped above our heads?”

“Something like that, yes.” Celeborn was leaning back against the rock idly working his hair into a fresh braid. He looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “They are up there, we are down here. Every possible entry into this valley has either been sealed off or is so well manned that nothing could creep through. We have people out making triply sure nothing has been overlooked. We may be unable to get out, no one ever mounted a successful assault up a cliff, but they cannot get in either. What do they call it in that eastern game my wife loves so much? Stalemate?”

“Stalemate, yes.” Elrond looked up at the top of the cliff, at the stunted trees, the uneven lie of the land with the occasional figure, black against the sky, crossing his line of sight. The day’s end was fast sliding into night, a glimmer of stars had already winked into view. They were at the bottom of a tree-filled fissure, so deep that even during the day there was the occasional hint of starlight The trees grew thick along the lower slopes of the cliff, effectively hiding the river and their encampment from above. Celeborn was right: their party were the most likely to have been followed.

The broad shelf they were on above the river widened further down, offering more room for the creation of a proper village for the refugees, but from the start an instinct had warned him to keep away. It had been right; there was less space where they were now, but they were up against the side of the mountain and as safe as it was possible to be under such circumstances. Later they could also make use of the wide green bowl of a valley that their shelter opened into, but until it had been proven secure, he would allow no one beyond the closely guarded curve in the river.

He was about to mention this when a rush of feet made him swing round instead. One of the older boys and two children came to a combined halt in front of him. “You need to come now, lord,” the boy said. “It’s Mistress Héolystan. Thoron says her time’s come and he’s trained to deal with broken bones and sword gashes, not childbirth.”

Celeborn, about to sink into the meditation Elrond had noted as a constant come sundown, snorted with laughter. Elrond rose and brushed his pants off, a futile exercise considering no one was washing clothes. That would have to wait for one of the shallows further down the river to be declared safe. “One day he’ll realise there’s more honour to bringing new life into the world than in sewing up wounds and listening to stories of how the sword’s wielder was big enough to be Turin returned.”

As he was hurrying off he saw Celeborn beckon the boy back and heard him drawl in an amused voice, “Go spread the word that we’re allowing cooking fires tonight. And stop off at the barracks and tell Eleneth. Otherwise she’s likely to have them put right out and I can’t be the only one heartily tired of cold food.”

_Mithlond_

As far as he could judge, the dinner had gone well. Captain Gimilkhâd, seated beside Gil-galad, gave the impression of enjoying both food and company equally. He had two young men with him, introduced as the sons of lords with unpronounceable names, and they too had been given places on the royal dais. As had Erestor, tonight a creature of dark fascination in velvet only a shade less black than his hair and glittering with a king’s ransom in diamonds that Glorfindel assumed had been borrowed from the Treasury. He wondered about it until Gil-galad gave the speech wishing their guests safe journey and mentioned that Erestor of Nargothrond would return with them to Númenor carrying letters and gifts for the queen and her nephew the co-regent. Then the diamonds made sense; a display of wealth to make up for his lack of a title.

Glorfindel had slipped away in the after-dinner confusion to enjoy a few quiet minutes outdoors while the tables were removed or set back against the wall, the musicians struck up and the dancing began. He still found Mithlond boisterously noisy at times - exciting, invigorating even, but louder and faster than either Gondolin or his rebirth home in Aman. When it all grew a bit too much he had found it helped to go for a walk and breathe in clean salt air.

The ferry was in view when he came out and he idly watched its light as he crossed the grass till it turned towards shore and was lost from sight. The sea’s voice brought Elsúrië to mind and he spent a while musing on what she would have thought of the dinner, and if it was night over there as it was here in Endórë, and if they shared the same view of Ithil softly lighting the waves. Not the same stars though, they were quite different this far east.

He stopped near the harbour steps and stood watching the lights on the far side of the strait, chance or fate once more bringing him to the right place at the right time. He was aware of footsteps on the stairs, and waited, curious, till a small band of warriors trudged into view, their clothing the worse for wear, their bodies drooping with tiredness. He followed instinct, moving out of the wall’s shadow into the light of the torch that flared in its sconce at the top of the steps. “Well met, brothers in arms. What news of the war _?”_

They hesitated, startled, as he’d expected, then one of them said something low voiced to the others, and they all came to a respectful halt. They had seen him at the march past when they left Lindon, he guessed, when he had stood beside Gil-galad, seeing them on their way to action in Eregion. “Evening, my lord. We were sent over to speak to Master Callonui. We just got back from Eriador…”

“Did they feed you over on the south shore?” he interrupted. “If not, get along to the kitchen once you’ve spoken with him and have a bite. Just follow the scent of roast meat. If you wait here, I’ll have someone call him, he’s in the Hall somewhere. Bad news?”

He had now established himself as someone who knew the whereabouts of Lindon’s senior general and would send someone for him rather than going himself. And he was offering them food. In other words, he was Command. They all started talking at once, relieved to have an audience with authority.

“Eriador’s a mess, my lord. Barely got out with our lives.”

“There’s fighting all over, best we could do was join up with Celeborn’s boys and try make life difficult for the enemy. They usually have food too. That helps.”

“That was before he and Lord Elrond got themselves trapped like rats in that valley Lord Elrond found,” the man who brought up the rear told him, the first to get to the meat of the story. “They’re making a sort of healing centre and safe place for refugees. I just got back there when half the eastern army showed up at the top of the cliff above them. Army can’t get down, they can’t get out.

“We’re only here because we’d been riding reconnaissance and got trapped outside.”

They were gathered around him now in a ragged semicircle, not too close but close enough to be confiding. They were men looking for a captain to report to, he recognised the signs well. “Lords Elrond and Celeborn are trapped in a valley by part of the eastern army?” he repeated, looking for confirmation. Heads nodded in unison. “This valley – how secure are they?” In other words, how urgent was this siege, affecting as it did a prince of the Sindar and the king’s heir.

“It’s pretty tightly sewn up, my lord. They had that all in place before it happened. Lord Elrond was showing off, letting the Prince see how safe he could make it.”

“Just as well,” the first speaker cut in grimly.

“Great, huge gash in the ground, like being at the bottom of a pit,” another volunteered. “Then it opens up into a sweet little valley, plenty of space for crops and whatnot, all fed by the river.”

“What, homesick are you?” someone mocked.

“Shut up, you.”

“So they’d be safe, just not able to get out? How many men with them?” Glorfindel used his ‘command’ voice, knowing it would never cross their minds to wonder if they should share this sensitive information with him before reporting to Callonui. He was unsure about that himself, but the more he knew, the stronger his position.

“Most of ours – Lord Elrond’s. And Celeborn took a good handful of his and two that were wounded. No idea who’s taking his place while he’s gone. We took a vote and decided to get back here rather than go look for them.”

Glorfindel stood with arms crossed over his chest, hand to chin, and considered this latest disaster, the music from the hall forming an unlikely accompaniment to the saga. He’d had a better look at them now and could see the dust of a heavy journey, the need for rest, the residue of fear. “How big is this army, what’s the estimate? Are most of Sauron’s forces tied up outside this valley?”

They exchanged looks. “Don’t think so, my lord. We heard the main army’s based in what used to be Ost-in-Edhil, with a bunch of roving companies scouring the countryside. Course just the companies are close to the size of our original army before – before we started losing people. The lot penning everyone into the Riven Dell are under the commander we faced after we crossed the Gwathlo. He’s good.”

“Word is Annatar’s consolidating Eriador and Eregion, making sure the dwarves don’t cause trouble before heading this way.”

Glorfindel felt the tension build on the air at the thought and flattened it firmly. “We’re ready for anything that might come this way, and we have the mountains as a natural wall,” he pointed out. “Nothing to worry about this side of the border. You men wait here. I was on my way back anyhow, so I’ll get Callonui out to debrief you and someone will tell you where to go after you’ve eaten. Wait here.”

“Thank you, my lord,” several voices chorused, though at the prospect of repeating their story for a third time, they must have felt the night would never end.

He made his way back across the flower-studded grass and through the side door, then hurried along the passageway that led back into the main Hall. The buzz of voices and bright, energetic music grew louder, popular tunes whose titles he kept confusing. Before the dancing, there had been a few serious numbers, but the only one that stayed with him was from Erestor’s friend Lindir, who had sung of lost love, a moonlit maiden on a windblown hill, with such quiet certainty that Glorfindel could almost see the girl, smell the pine on the air. He was working with the other minstrels now, providing accompaniment for the dancers.

Gil-galad was on the far side of the Hall, where a canopy had been set up over a small cluster of chairs for the king, his guests of honour, and a few privileged courtiers. These included Erestor, who was sitting graceful and still, listening with the hint of a smile to one of the young Númenóreans. Glorfindel crossed to them, moving at an angle to come up behind Gil. He gave the company a court smile. “I’m sorry, please excuse me. Something His Majesty wanted to be kept informed of…”

Gil-galad half-turned, surprised, and opened his mouth either to ask what he wanted or to introduce him. Not giving him time, Glorfindel leaned closer, almost cheek to cheek, breathing in hints of expensive spice from almost-curly dark hair. His own hair brushed Gil-galad’s broad, velvet-clad shoulder as he whispered, “You need to come. There’s something you have to hear for yourself, about the war. Outside.”

Erestor’s amber eyes met his briefly. Glorfindel tried to convey urgency with a frown and received a brief nod, then Erestor turned to the company in general, spreading his hands and smiling. “I suppose we should let His Majesty attend to business, even on a night like this. Come gentlemen, I think the time has come to stop talking. It’s a shame to waste the music - we need to find you ladies to dance with.”

 

o-----O-----o

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to Red, the Voice of Calm Sanity (or whatever the title is). Without her there would be no fic. She shelters it from my tantrums.


	7. The Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor and Lindir prepare for Númenor and Lindir gets to exchange small talk with the king. Plus there's an unexpected gift.

Rather to his surprise Erestor opened the door at the first knock, all casually fastened hair and irritation. Amber eyes looked him up and down impassively. “Don’t you have work to do, Songbird? Lays to practice, instruments to tune?”

Lindir leaned against the doorframe and grinned, putting all his charm into it. “Oh, I’m done with that for the day. I came to persuade you out into the fresh air. You’re keeping the hours of a well bred bat.” 

“That would be because I’m busy,” Erestor informed him with a glare. “I have no time to appreciate any more fresh air than wanders in through my bedroom window right now.”

“What are you doing? It’s a beautiful morning, the rain’s gone, it’s almost a crime to sit indoors.”

Erestor heaved a sigh and stood aside, gesturing him to enter. “There’s no point in arguing with you. Come and take a look.”

Lindir followed the short, black--clad figure past a meticulously tidy living room that felt unused and through to the bedroom, a light, airy room decorated in shades of blue and white. The mid-morning sun, a welcome change from the rain that had cloaked Mithlond for days, streamed in through the windows and pooled onto a wide, canopied bed in the centre of which a small chest lay on its side, the contents shimmering on silk. The sunlight also brought out the colours in several mounds of rich fabric piled upon the bed. 

Erestor casually pushed a bundle of furs out of the way and sat down frowning, gesturing for Lindir to follow suit. “They like display. Fine white wool and a hint of pearl won’t do, according to Círdan. Not for the envoy of a rich and powerful king. So – jewels, silks, brocades, eastern embroideries…. Did you bring the sun with you? It’s about time.” 

Lindir sat carefully on the edge of the bed, impressed by the display and doing his best to hide it. “Sunshine follows me like a tame puppy, yes. Where did you get all this? It’s not yours, is it?”

Erestor stopped pairing earrings and laughed. “Gods, of course not. I have a few good pieces but nothing like this. No, most of the jewellery comes out of the Treasury. Some of it seems to belong to Elrond and a few pieces are Gil’s own, though we have different tastes usually. The diamonds are Gil’s,” he added, pointing to a heap of rainbowed fire. He hesitated before touching them and Lindir remembered something mentioned briefly, in passing – Annatar’s name for him had been Quenya for diamond. “They were a personal gift to Gil from Khazad-dum at the conclusion of the trade agreement on mithril,” Erestor went on, letting a strand slide through his fingers. “Durin’s folk tried to pass them off as incidentals, but they handled them a bit too carefully to be convincing.”

Perhaps the pause had been less about Annatar than a homage to a more distant memory of a time before his stay in Eregion then. Lindir looked but couldn’t quite bring himself to pick up the priceless white stones. “You wore some of these last night, didn’t you?” he said instead. “They looked fine on you but I think I prefer those emeralds. For your hair?”

Erestor nodded and seemed fractionally to relax. “For my hair, yes. I’ve not seen them before but there are strands and strands here. I might try and turn a couple into a belt or something…”

He held a tunic fashioned from heavy yellow silk near the emeralds for a moment, considered the contrast, then placed it on the larger pile of clothing on the other side of the bed. “Hardly any of this is mine either. It got delivered early this morning – clothing, unworked fabric, no idea where it was all collected from. I might not want to know. There’s some wonderful eastern cloth – over there, under the red thing – that I really want. I might just drape it round me and hope for the best if they can’t get it stitched in time,” He looked around and spread his hands. “Right now I can’t decide if I should just take everything or if less will be more…”

“If you take all this, Gimilkhâd’s likely to toss half your baggage overboard,” Lindir pointed out cheerfully. “You need some shiny stuff for court, elegance for dinner, and sensible clothes so you can ride a horse and look halfway useful, not like a pampered noble.” Lindir ran a woven scarlet belt through his hands as he spoke, enjoying the texture. It was embroidered with very fine gold thread, giving just a hint of shimmer that lifted the red to flame. “What are you wearing this with? It’s stunning.”

“It’s not going,” Erestor said flatly. “It’s mine. I got it in Ost-in-Edhil. A gift. It came out when I was looking for accessories.”

Lindir considered the turn of his mouth, the by now familiar closed off look that bespoke Annatar, and nodded. “But a fine gift,” he pointed out. “And putting it aside because of the giver hands him power over your choices.”

“Don’t start,” Erestor snapped. “And since when were you such a philosopher?”

“My interesting visit home probably helped,” Lindir said mildly. “And you know I’m right. Wear that with black or palest cream or that buttery yellow you have over there and they’ll be struck dumb.” 

“A philosopher and full of compliments too? You should go home more often.” Erestor clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words were out, amber eyes flew to Lindir’s face, wide and contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “That was uncalled for. I’m just tense about all this. So much to organise and learn, too little time, pages and pages to work my way through once I’ve sorted out my wardrobe... It’s a bad excuse, yes. I’m sorry.” 

A dozen images flooded in, none of them good, led by his mother’s hopeful, worried face, but Erestor had no idea what he had conjured up and was genuinely remorseful so Lindir made himself shrug it off and focused on the present. “I know. You’re prickly when you’re worried, I’ve noticed. Your tongue gets sharper.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t use it on you,” Erestor said quietly. ”I need to stop doing that.”

“Can I help? With the preparation I mean. Your tongue’s beyond my control.”

Erestor gave him a wry look but let it pass. “I’m not sure. Mainly I’d just like more time to prepare and there’s nothing you can do about that. Gil’s spontaneous by nature, a few days to skim old reports and throw some clothes together would be fine for him. It wouldn’t cross his mind there’s a problem and I’m not about to whine.” 

“I’m better off than you, I suppose. Just need to pack my clothes and make sure the instruments are well wrapped against the sea.” Lindir drew a knee up as he spoke and clasped his hands round it. Long curls insinuated themselves over his shoulders and he brushed them back automatically, almost missing the flash of something suspiciously like relief that crossed Erestor’s face.

“You’re definitely coming then? I wasn’t sure if Gil was serious about that last night. Arvarad, yes. He already knew. Then we got interrupted by the news from Eriador and he never quite picked up the thread again.” Erestor moved so his back was up against the pillows and stretched his arms above his head, fingers interlocked. “I think I need a break. All this finery’s wasted on me anyhow, I like nice things but I was never seriously materialistic. Getting the chance to dress like a prince – or a prince’s paramour – isn’t much of a reward for the headache it’s giving me.”

Lindir nodded, turning a little to avoid the sun in his eyes, and noticed a curtained doorway that must lead to a private bathroom, something unheard of over on his side of the palace. Different worlds, he reminded himself. “I’m coming, yes, if you’ll have me. I mean, the chance to see Númenor – most bards would kill for it. The entire troupe loathes me.” He was grinning, keeping his tone light, but it was true, as was the fact that right now he couldn’t give a damn; the opportunity was one in a thousand lifetimes. “If you’d rather not, I can tell his majesty I don’t think I’m suited and recommend another musician, but I’ll never speak to you again. They liked my playing, did you hear? I was offered as a kind of – cultural exchange.”

Erestor snorted. “Like a commodity, yes. There’s wine going along too. Someone on the Council wanted to include a cook, but sanity prevailed. And no, of course I’m glad to have you along. It’ll be like crossing Eriador, just dryer and no horses to fuss about. And you’ll keep me and Arvarad from killing each other. I don’t want sole responsibility for any of this and we work well together, but it’s likely to get rough after a few weeks. We like our space.”

“I’m glad you think this will be drier,” said Lindir, who had nearly been washed overboard at least twice and could not remember a single dry voyage out of the many he’d taken in his quest for new ideas, new audiences. “You haven’t done a whole lot of open sea sailing, have you?”

Erestor pulled a face. “No. I am not what you’d call a boat person. Besides crossing between Balar and Sirion back in the old days, the most time I’ve spent on board ship was after they broke the land and the sea came pouring into Sirion and we had to evacuate Balar before Ulmo got distracted and forgot to protect us.”

“Of course - you’d have been there then.” Lindir was still playing with the scarlet belt, reluctant to put it aside: he liked the way it felt. “That must have been an experience.”

Erestor rolled his eyes then laughed. “First it was terrifying, then it was just uncomfortable. We were at sea for close on half a moon, I think, and no one had been prepared. Comparisons to crossing the Ice didn’t go down well with those who had, but it was just as badly thought out.”

“They hadn’t a clue what they were getting into when they left Aman,” Lindir said, his voice softening. The tale of that epic journey had resonated deep inside of him since he first heard it. If he tried he could see the endless grey-blue of the Helcaraxë, feel the bitter chill, hear the grinding, cracking of the ice, the rush of the deadly sea. “I had the story from someone who was part of it. She lost her parents and sister, only her brother survived and he died in the fighting. Those were hard times.”

“Is there a song?” 

Lindir smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, of course there’s a song. How wouldn’t there be? I never sung it for the Lady though. I thought it might cut too close to the bone. I’ll play a little for you some time if you’d like?”

Straightening up, Erestor stretched, arching his back, all sleek muscle and indefinable but costly scent. The sight set Lindir’s blood singing and he had to crush inconvenient thoughts firmly. “I’d like that yes. There’ll be some long nights between here and there. You said you’ll just be packing a few clothes and your instruments? I hope you’ve got something flashy to wear for the Queen, not the plain blue you had on last night.”

“I have something more courtly but I’m going as a bard, not a courtier. There’s a subtle difference - I’m working, not trying to find favour.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Erestor said firmly. “You are the King of Lindon’s chief minstrel, you need to dress accordingly.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Lindir laughed, pleased in spite of himself. “I can think of a few who’d not like to hear that either.”

“For purposes of this trip, yes you are.” Erestor began searching through robes and tunics, then shook his head. “None of this will work for you, our colouring’s too different. We need to have something made for you, or at least adjusted, so you look the part.”

“And how does the King of Lindon’s chief minstrel look?” Lindir teased, flicking him lightly with the belt. 

Erestor swatted at it. “Expensive,” he replied, and his eyes were alive with mischief, a look Lindir had seen little of and found he liked rather a lot. “Very expensive and important in his own right. Lots of pearls. I’ll go and add it to the order – they’ll be sewing till we board at this rate.”

Lindir dropped the belt and caught Erestor’s wrist as he made to rise. “You don’t want to rather trust my instincts on this?”

Erestor hesitated, then sank down on the bed again. ”Explain?” 

Lindir left his fingers loosely circling fine bones and cool skin. “I’ve travelled through the south west, remember?” he said, confident now he was back on solid ground. “I played in several of the Númenórean settlements and for the Haradrim, too. They like display and opulence, yes. You need the jewels and the silks, they need to value you because you speak for our king. Me? I bring music. Their bards carry news and gossip just as we do, and their value is the same as ours – unbiased information and a song in exchange for a plate of food and a dry bed. In the east that’s vital because most of those little cities are at war or in a state of armed truce with one another. No one dresses up, there’s too much chance of being robbed. I need one really good outfit, and I have it. Otherwise, my music has to speak for itself. I shouldn’t outshine it; a halfway decent bard should have more faith in himself.”

Erestor had been following this with a frown and now he bit his lip for a few moments then nodded. “That makes sense. We’re saying different things about our king and our realm. What about jewellery then?”

“Oh, a few good broaches and rings wouldn’t hurt,” Lindir said. ”Marks of appreciation. Every travelling bard worth his salt has a stock of those. I have some decent bits and pieces…”

Erestor pushed a box of rings towards him with his free hand, the other stayed tamely captive. “Here. Help yourself. And there’s a few broaches in the corner of the box. I’m using my own so I don’t need any of this. Do you also want to look over what we have about Númenor? There’s mainly essays and a few notes from mariners plus the original description from Eönwë. Gil doesn’t trust that but then he and Eönwë didn’t get along.”

“That’d be useful. We could go through it together - I find it easier to learn things that way.” And he might pick up a few more historical curiosities like that while he lightened the pressure on Erestor.

Erestor slanted him a look from under dark lashes and retrieved his wrist. “You are so transparent. But that would be useful, yes,” he said. “And you can tell me anything you picked up while you were in the south. People must have talked about home.”

“Picked up?” Lindir remembered a few brief but satisfying encounters and bit back a smile. Erestor’s raised eyebrow spoke volumes. “Yes, that too – I’ve never been one to say no to good company. But it’s true, people always talk about home. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Let’s go get some lunch,” Erestor said, rising gracefully. “Suddenly I’m starving, and I’ve had about as much time with all this as I can manage. We can take the books with us down to the Owl. It’s a good place to work.”

Lindir folded the red belt and placed it next to the yellow silk. The gold thread glittered as though fire-lit. He quirked an eyebrow but Erestor looked away so he let it go. “It’s time for a break, yes. Come on, I hear they do a good fish lunch.”

“You’re determined to make me wear that thing, aren’t you?” 

In the simple tunic and pants and with his sleeves pushed back, he could see Erestor had lost weight since Eregion. Lindir shook his head. “It’s a belt, Erestor. It’s good quality and the colour suits you. And maybe it can have another use, maybe it can be a reminder of why we’re doing this and why we have to succeed.”

Erestor gave him an expressionless look then shrugged and reached out a hand to him. “If you say so. Come. Get up. If we leave it much later, the Owl will be packed and I like a window seat.”

\-----o

In the end, they had a week to prepare, which was hardly enough by Erestor’s standards, Lindir took it upon himself to provide light relief when the clothes came back from the seamstress not looking as Erestor had pictured them or a renowned essay on the fishing industry on Númenor proved a pretty fable when run past Captain Gimilkhâd. Otherwise he divided his time between making his own simple preparations, choosing his repertoire, and keeping his excitement to himself. 

He was still required to sing and play at dinner each night as one of the troupe, not a soloist. So far as Master Cirithon was concerned, he was no more than what he was: the new singer who happened to be going along on some outlandish excursion with two of the ‘Balar crowd’.

He heard that term used on several occasions before asking, and as he’d suspected, it referred to the handful of courtiers and friends who had known Gil-galad in the hard times on Balar and who had stayed part of his inner circle ever since. Lindir could understand the implied jealousy, just as he could understand a king wanting people close to him who he had grown to know in adversity, in a time when there was very little in his gift besides a smile and a place at Círdan’s table. In that light, choosing Erestor to go to Númenor started to make sense.

The night before they sailed was spent as Círdan’s guests. There was to be a farewell dinner for the Captain and his two young, highborn passengers, both of whom Erestor had been carefully cultivating with a single-minded skill that made Lindir, who had seen his charm at work in Ost-in-Edhil, smile. Lindir had concentrated on Gimilkhâd once he found they had two of the coastal settlements in common. He liked the captain, but he also thought he might be useful for networking purposes. Successful sea captains in his experience had connections, and connections were pure mithril in a foreign land.

Erestor vanished into Maeriel’s kitchen almost as soon as they arrived, leaving Lindir free to roam the grounds of the Academy or stroll back down to the harbour. He had an idea he’d see more than enough water in the next few weeks and settled for the Academy. His wanderings soon took him up onto the roof, which he had heard was used for the study of stars by young mariners learning their craft. It was open and a bit windy with none of the sheltered corners he had already discovered on the Palace roof except for a semi-circle of benches on one side with a raised dais which he assumed was used by the instructor. The late afternoon view was spectacular though, taking in the entire gulf with its rocky basin, the sea beyond and the looming mountains that sheltered Lindon. 

There was a railing and he went to lean on it, letting the wind lift and tangle his hair. There would be time before dinner to tidy it. The sea was loud here, so the voice behind him was unheralded and made him jump.

“You’re ready for the voyage, Master Minstrel?”

He would have expected more noise and busyness to announce the king’s arrival, though there might be less formality over here than in other places. His father referred to Gil-galad disparagingly as ‘the Sindar king’ and never seemed to notice how his mother always cringed a little into herself... Their family history was – tangled – to say the least. He caught himself and bowed his head hastily. “Your Majesty. As ready as I’ll ever be. It should be a unique experience.”

“Two or three weeks on one of their ships? Yes, should be. I had another look at the rigging a few days back, it’s nothing like what we use. Círdan’s fascinated.” Gil-galad joined him at the railing leaning his forearms on it and stared out towards the sea. “The wind’s turning, you’ll be sailing into it but that shouldn’t be much trouble for them. Read up on Númenor with Erestor, have you?”

Despite the casual tone, Lindir knew this was not a simple pre-dinner chat. Gil-galad was not obligated to stop and make small talk with him, therefore he must want something. People in authority always did. “It’s easier studying it together, yes, plus I’ve spent a little time in the southern settlements and we could explore a couple of rumours and stories I’d heard, too.”

“You speak the language a bit, Gimilkhâd tells me?”

“He’s being polite, Sire. I can manage basics like hello and thank you and where is the privy, but that’s about all.”

Gil-galad smiled briefly. “You can probably get by in most places with those three. Where were you? Erestor should have mentioned it.”

“He didn’t know before and I had nothing useful to add beyond the language and a sense of their religion - nothing worth mentioning.” Things not necessarily important enough to raise at a briefing, rather the kind of information you shared casually with a friend over a cup of wine. He knew from Erestor that he and Gil-galad no longer spent that kind of time together, but could hardly say so.

“Hmm. Well, they’ll like that about you. And the music went down well, too.” 

He fell silent and stood watching the water, ignoring the wind that pulled at his long dark hair and bejewelled oak green surcoat. Lindir waited quietly. He could not leave without being dismissed and until Gil-galad was inclined to do so, he might as well enjoy the view. And it was not every bard that got to study the King of the Noldor up close.

“Erestor’s ready for it, in your opinion?”

The king had not turned round and there was no judging from his tone what he was looking for, but Lindir had his answer ready. “He’s more than ready for it, Sire. He has a wardrobe fit for a king’s ambassador, as good a grounding in Númenórean history and interests as we have available and he’s been practicing the language with one of Lord Círdan’s men who’s fluent. He’s as prepared as it’s possible to be.”

Gil-galad did turn his head now, and his look was speculative. He had very clear blue eyes, Lindir noted. “That was quick and thorough. Loyalty to a friend’s a good thing. Now – how ready is he?”

Lindir restrained an urge to roll his eyes, which would have been forward. “He’d have liked a month, he’s making do with the clothes, and he’s worried that speaking Sindarin to everyone will sound elite and like we think we’re too good to learn their tongue. That’s why he’s making such an effort with it and I’m trying to pick up a few more words too. He’s a perfectionist, Sire. He wants – needs – it to be right.”

“Hmph. That’s better.”

Gulls swooped past shrieking and the shadow they cast made Lindir shiver for no discernible reason. He saw movement out the corner of his eye on the other side of the roof, near the stairs, and there must have been some sound he missed because Gil-galad glanced round too, then moved away from the railing. He didn’t exactly smile, but his look was focused, pleased.

“There you are. I asked when I got here but they said you’d gone for a walk.”

In Lindir’s admittedly limited experience, Glorfindel liked plain clothes and simple styling for his hair, none of the affectations he had seen from some of the Exiles in Ost-in-Edhil. Today the Reborn was in soft greens and blues and had his hair fastened back from his face with a pair of mother-of-pearl clips. The very simplicity underlined his status, a lord of fabled Gondolin and the only elf ever sent back across the sea from the Halls of the Dead. He gave Lindir a quick nod and had a smile for the king. “I like to do that in the late afternoon when the birds are getting ready to settle for the evening. I thought you’d be here later?”

“I wanted a little personal time before socialising and dinner so I got away early.”

There were words under those words, Lindir heard them with a musician’s ear and the head of a man who has seen a lot of strange and secret things. People tended to overlook musicians, as though all they could do was make music. Gil-galad finally remembered him. “Oh – Lindir tells me he spent a little time in the south. It could be useful over there.”

“In one of the Númenórean settlements?” Glorfindel sounded truly interested, not merely polite. “I was reading about those recently. They have a string of towns along the coast, don’t they?”

“Yes sir, they do.” He was back in the conversation, it seemed. “Strongholds might be a better word for them though, walled and protected by steel. Peace is a forgotten concept down there.”

Glorfindel frowned. “From what I’ve read, they pushed the local tribes out of the best sites and anchorage and they’re deforesting the land in a long swathe along the coast. Wood for ships I can understand, but all those trees – that’s not just a shame, it’s short sighted.”

“It’s worth the price. They kept the east busy for a while, and that means part of the army that might have come pouring over the mountains stayed home to watch out for Númenórean raiders,” Gil-galad pointed out. 

Lindir had to keep his opinion to himself, but Glorfindel said firmly, “They reduced Sauron’s manpower yes, but I’d have liked a different reason for it than defending stolen land. At any rate – when you get back, you must come and share a cup of wine with me, Lindir, and tell me what it’s like down there. And in Númenor too. You’ll see a different side of it to the others.”

Glorfindel seemed approachable so Lindir followed instinct. “Could we do an exchange, my lord? I’ll tell you about the southern lands and you can share a little about Gondolin? A song, if you remember any, would be very welcome.”

“I think that would make for a pleasant evening,” Glorfindel said. He had a nice smile, it softened his features and crinkled the corners of his eyes. “We should have talked earlier. I look forward to it.” 

The words in themselves were mere social courtesy, but Lindir could see he meant them. The king was paying attention to the exchange, his face inscrutable, and Lindir was aware of something going on there below the surface. He set a corner of his mind to working on the puzzle of what it was while he smiled at Glorfindel. “Thank you. And yes, not the same kind of experience. Different doors open to a musician than an ambassador, which might be useful. No information is ever wasted.”

Erestor said that sometimes, with a twist to his lip. Lindir, who knew what he was thinking, always felt for him at those times. But that veiled look, that feeling in the air, gave his own words a double meaning as well. There was a mystery here, one he would watch for on his return. Meanwhile Gil-galad took what he said at face value and nodded. “There’s a true word. We might need to have dealings with the island another time, so the more we know the better. Stay watchful.”

“That would apply doubly to Erestor and Arvarad, I’d think,” Glorfindel added. “The official negotiators.”

Gil-galad shrugged and started walking towards the door to the stairwell. “No need to tell either of them to keep their eyes and ears open,” he said over his shoulder. “Erestor’s been doing that from habit for as long as I’ve known him. I expect them both to come home speaking fluent Adûnaic and able to draw a map of the island blindfold.”

\-----o

The wind had come up next morning. Lindir woke early from a fitful sleep to be greeted by leaden skies, wheeling, angry birds and the creaking and flapping that would have told him, had he not already known, that he was close to a harbour. He got out of bed reluctantly and went to splash water in his face, then wrapped his cloak about him and stood by the window assessing the sea and sky and taking note of the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet; it would be some while before he felt this again – anything from a few weeks to more than a moon, the captain said.

He had been told there would be a light breakfast downstairs before they set out and to bring his bags, so he dressed, braided his curls firmly, gathered his baggage – meagre by Erestor’s current standards – and his instruments and got everything downstairs in two trips. 

The residential part of the Academy was already awake, with a good deal of coming and going. When he went out to test how bad the wind really was, he found some of the students already waiting on the steps, wrapped against the weather. From the excited chatter and speculation, he gathered watching one of the Númenórean vessels set out was an event not to be missed. No one realised he would soon be getting a closer view of a Númenórean under sail than any of them would ever experience but he kept quiet, enjoying their high spirits. 

He felt incredibly old and jaded by comparison and wondered fleetingly where his mind had been when he agreed to this adventure. It was likely to be cold and miserable, with an uncertain welcome at the end and no guarantee of a speedy voyage home, to say nothing of the risk of drowning before they ever reached the island kingdom. No one had any idea of the Númenóreans’ safety record at sea. Lindir laughed at himself. He was a musician, and careers were made from such unlikely chances as knowing the right person at the right moment. Not only that, but the opportunity to see the Land of Gift was irresistible, he could no more have turned it down than he could fly.

Breakfast was taken mainly standing or wandering around the kitchen. Maeriel presided over a spread put together with easy consumption in mind and the only two seated were Círdan, whose home this was, and Gil-galad, who was doing so much talking that he had almost forgotten to eat. Most of what he had to say was directed at Erestor who stood by the hearth eating an apple and saying very little in return. He was richly and warmly dressed, but looked as though he hadn’t slept. Arvarad, Gil-galad’s assistant and their travelling companion, stood at the end of the table eating and occasionally nodding. Lindir wondered who was taking his place. Erestor would have known, but he had not thought to ask. Everyone present, with the exclusion of Glorfindel, seemed to be part of either the king’s or Círdan’s inner circles – the Balar crowd. They all knew one another, making this a casual, almost intimate gathering.

Lindir helped himself to a bowl of oatmeal and joined Erestor at the hearth. Círdan glanced up from a silent contemplation of his plate to say, “I trust you are a good sailor, Lindir. If not, something lighter might sit better?”

Lindir shrugged. “If it’s coming up, it may as well have some bulk to it. I’m usually a good sailor, my lord.”

Círdan gave him a satisfied look and returned to his breakfast. Lindir wondered what the usual answer was if his had that effect. 

As though he hadn’t noticed him before, Gil-galad said abruptly, “Lindir. Of course. I almost forgot.” 

He got up from the table and crossed the room to fetch a well wrapped bundle which he brought over and held out to Lindir. “Here. You may as well take this along. They might appreciate its age – doubt they’ll have heard of Maglor.”

Erestor came out of his silence to say, “I’m sure Elros spoke of him and legends have their way of growing. What is that?”

Lindir knew. Even before he took it one handed from the king, he knew. “Sire, I can’t. This belongs to the Lady...”

It was Maglor’s harp, the one Galadriel had placed in his and Erestor’s care when she sent them across Eriador to Lindon ahead of an enemy army, and in which she had carefully secured two of Celebrimbor’s three Rings of Power. It settled in the crook of his arm as though it had come home.

“I very much doubt my aunt’s played it in years, if at all,” Gil-galad said firmly. “And she’d want you to be well turned out. The quality must be good if it belonged to Maglor and you said yourself she’d looked after it. See if you can find a use for it.”

Lindir looked around for somewhere to put his bowl and Erestor was next to him, taking it from him. He didn’t open the wrapping, just cradled the harp carefully, feeling its perfect weight and balance. His mind was empty of words, but his musician’s soul sang. 

“That’s settled then,” Gil-galad said, heading back to the table. Conversation had died away while everyone watched to see what he was doing and now it resumed, almost drowning out Lindir’s belated, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Beside him, Erestor tried a few mouthfuls of the oatmeal, made a face, and then handed the bowl back. “Stop looking so stunned,” he murmured.

“But – it’s the harp, Erestor. Did you know he was going to...?”

Erestor almost smiled. “Hardly. I’ve been quizzed over and over on what I know about Númenor, but it’s all rather flowed in one direction. No, but now you’ve got it, make the most of it. It’s a priceless harp once owned by a master. And more importantly...” he added, and his eyes flickered a hint of dark amusement, “at least this time it’s empty.”

\-----o-----o-----


	8. Burdens Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and Gil-galad talk about Erestor - carefully, while in the Wood life has a surprise for Galadriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, she posts! (sorry, I swore I wouldn't be late again )

_Mithlond_  

The wind was in constant motion and the sky had clouded over till it was a shade close to silver. Most of those who had come to watch the Númenórean sail had already hurried back across the strait before it became too choppy, but Gil-galad, a good sailor, had things he needed to do and problems to discuss with his foster father and so he had stayed longer. 

Glorfindel’s presence was unnecessary for the business at hand so he spent a while on the roof watching the sails shrinking into the distance and idly following the activity in the harbour and the passage of one of the swift little patrol ships as it set off to follow the coastline south. It gave him time alone with his thoughts which inevitably went back over what he recalled of Númenor, which wasn’t much. He had passed it on his way out from Valinor and had an impression of green topped cliffs and tall mountains, a land he would have liked to visit. He knew he could have been a useful part of the embassy now on its way there, his rank was high, his court experience extensive, but he knew without question that he would never be allowed to leave Mithlond and sail west without the rings.

He reached out but could barely feel them this morning. They were most present in the between times of dawn and dusk, as though waking from their reverie to touch the world and feel the power they fed on, but some days they were quieter. He had not yet found a pattern that explained why. Still, they were there, across the water in the palace, and they were his assigned task. He pulled a face at the thought and then shook himself. The wind was growing unpleasant, and his thoughts were about to take a morbid turn. It was time to go inside.

There seemed to be no one around, even Maeriel’s kitchen was empty, so he went up to the parlour used by everyone who lived permanently at the Academy, in what was in essence Círdan’s home. There was a fire in the hearth, which made the room cheerful, and the windows looked out over a patch of wild garden to the grey waters of the gulf. A bookcase and rows of pigeon holes for scrolls filled the wall nearest the door, which made it a favourite place for Glorfindel, who liked to read when he had time on his hands.

He found a book about the course of a river he had barely heard of, called the Anduin, complete with illustrations of local flora and landmarks and settled into one of the chairs with it. Currently he sought out this kind of book, trying to get a grasp on the shape of the reformed landmass after the destruction of the War. The building was never quiet and he was aware of movement and occasional voices, but except for the woman who helped with the cleaning, who came in to stoke up the fire, he was alone for long enough to sink into the narrative, caught up in a surprisingly vivid account of the lands beyond the Misty Mountains.

He was so immersed in the history that had unfolded along the banks of the great river that it was only by degrees that he became aware he wasn’t alone. Looking up, he found Gil-galad sitting opposite and watching him with a small, amused smile. He put the book down hastily, his finger marking the spot, and made to rise. Lindon’s king shook his head and gestured for him to stay seated. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you. Came looking and wanted to see how long it took you to notice I was here.”

Glorfindel smiled, unsure how he felt about being watched but staying sociable. “I only meant to sit here a while, too. It must be almost lunch time?”

“Oh yes, Maeriel said she’d send someone up when it’s time. What’re you reading?”

He turned the book towards the king. “Learning about distant places again. You’ve not been anywhere along there, have you?”

Gil-galad shook his head. “Never gone further than Eregion, not over the mountain. I’d have liked to visit Lindórinand but it never happened – they have the Anduin as one of their borders.”

“I hadn’t got that far yet. Have you seen to everything you wanted here?”

Gil-galad paused. “More or less? There’s always something else. Anyhow. Apparently you watched the ship out of sight while I was running around speaking to patrol captains and the like?”

“Sent my good wishes after them, yes,” Glorfindel said with a smile. “And they were quite a sight once the sails caught. I wondered how Erestor was doing – he told me he wasn’t a great sailor.”

“He’ll be all right, his stomach for it is fine, just less interest in pursuing it than some.” The smile was fond for a moment and then abruptly cut off. “Probably busy working on his language skills.”

“I got the impression he was concerned about not being prepared,” Glorfindel said carefully. “It’s my experience that others expect less of us than we do of ourselves though.”

“He had barely time to pack,” Gil-galad said. He sounded annoyed, possibly at himself as the one responsible. “No time to learn all he’d need or prepare as an ambassador should. He’ll have to do it all on the run, think on his feet – all things he’s good at, but wouldn’t have been my first choice, not for something this vital.”

“If you’d had more time to prepare, what would you have done differently?” He had wondered this but lacked an opening to ask before.

Gil-galad sat looking into the cheerfully flickering flames. “I’d still have sent him, but not as the primary spokesman, more to – take note of things. Ideally I’d find someone reliable, send them down south as an envoy, get them used to Númenóreans, have them learn the language, the history, the religion. Send them after they’d proved their worth? Instead I had to settle for someone with quick wits but not a trained diplomat, a good administrator, and a musician with pretty hair and a few words of Adûnaic.”

“He does have rather pretty hair,” Glorfindel agreed gravely. “You don’t often see such a shade. Or those curls.”

Gil-galad shot him a quick look. “Did you think so? He needs to tidy it up more, I was thinking, though I suppose it’s an invitation in its own right. Anyhow, that’s not really the point, is it. The point is no, they’re not the best choice I could make, but they were the best that’s available and Erestor and Lindir were in Ost-in-Edhil near the end, which gives it a bit more immediacy.”

Glorfindel thought it best not to discuss Lindir’s hair further. “But you still trust him to manage this. Even with the lack of preparation, even with his own lack of experience? I suppose – I suppose I’m curious, because it’s not how I’ve seen decisions taken before.” He caught himself on the edge of implied criticism and stepped back. “I’m sorry – that was forward.”

Gil-galad sighed heavily. “No, no it’s a fair question. Not sure I can even answer it. He’s Erestor. He’s – he understood the vision of what this place could be, he’s part of what made Lindon?” He reached for words, testing them, rejecting them. Finally he said, “I trust his judgement. He’s never had a title, doesn’t need it, maybe advisor would cover it... it’s hard to sum up what he’s done, what he is. You think I should have chosen someone else?”

Spy was probably the right word, but it would have been undiplomatic to say as much. Glorfindel shook his head. “Out of those I’ve met who might be suitable, there wasn’t anyone who stood out as a better choice. You trust his judgement, and that he’ll put our case well. And he’s a friend – you trust him personally.”

The suddenly uncertain look, quickly hidden, was less of a surprise than it might have been. “We’ve known each other a long time,” Gil-galad replied, and his voice gave nothing away. In Glorfindel’s experience, that said there were things hidden. “And I trust him with this, with Lindon. He understands what’s at stake, we all do.”

“He’s been gone a long time. It’s a shame he had to leave again so soon. You’ve barely had time to get reacquainted.” Glorfindel said it lightly, every sense alert for the moment when he pushed too close to the line and needed to pull back.

“We talked about the things we needed to,” Gil-galad said, a little shortly. “There’ll be more time to – catch up – when he gets back.”

There was hurt there, not just uncertainty. Glorfindel recognised it instantly and put it beside the walls he had sensed Erestor constructing, the deep quiet, the air of detachment. “Things were not as they’d been before he left, were they?” he asked, ready to retreat instantly.

An eyebrow twitched, but for a moment Gil-galad said nothing. Then, “He was gone a while. There were – complications, things we needed to clear up. There wasn’t really much time for that before he left.”

Glorfindel wondered how many people the king would confide in even this far. Not many, he thought. Kings seldom took that kind of chance, and under the friendliness and good humour he had already worked out that Gil-galad was a very private man. Yet he had made himself vulnerable here. Glorfindel took a breath: he was touched, and confused at feeling touched, while at the same time wondering if he could risk one more question.

Gil-galad pushed his hair back at that moment and smiled, effortless charm lighting his eyes, dimples giving his face warmth and character. “Life can be a mess. Anyhow. I trust him. My aunt likes him because she can’t intimidate him. It’s a good trait when you’re dealing with people you want something from.”

The signal was clear: the topic was closed, leaving no space for a final question. Not at this time anyhow. Glorfindel moved on, matching his mood. “And we are asking for something quite big – the use of their fighting men.”

“Well no, we have a mutual aid treaty,” Gil-galad said mildly. “Erestor has the terms of that treaty off by heart and it’s one of his life rules to never look as though you’re asking for help, it leaves you at a disadvantage.”

Their eyes met and they laughed. “And you can rely on him to push that home while displaying the wealth and power of Lindon in silk and jewels?”

“And a quick tongue and a sweet smile, yes.” Gil-galad was animated now, amused. “Gildor would have been the best choice, but he can’t sail west and anyhow no one knows where in the Pit he is right now. So we have Erestor for honeyed words, Arvarad for behind the scenes bargaining, and Lindir as a reminder of shared culture.”

“Lindon’s fate,” Glorfindel said soberly, “in those three pairs of hands.”

Gil-galad’s expression grew serious. “They’ll be enough,” he said firmly. “And no, I know you like testing things from different angles, but that is not open for debate. The simple fact is those three pairs of hands will have to be enough. They’re all we and everyone trapped in Eriador have.” 

 

_The Wood_

“No one ever argues about chores or who owns what here.”

“Oh I’m sure they argue about things, Celebrían.” Galadriel said. “I think they’re just careful what they say around us.”

They were sitting outside the reed shelter that was their temporary home watching a group of women laughing and talking on the way to the path that led to the river. The bundles of clothing in their arms included items belonging to her and Celebrían, and while Galadriel was perfectly capable of doing her own laundry, she saw no reason to press the point if someone was insisting. Her surprise at the offer was what had Celebrían springing instantly to the defence of the Wood.

“Haldir says it’s all about people sharing and looking after one another, not about one person being more important than another. They each have their own talents and they use them and that means no one has to do things that would make them unhappy.”

Galadriel stopped watching the girls and focused on her daughter. “You’ve been talking with Haldir? I thought you hated him?”

Celebrían shook her head hard. “It’s bad to hate people, Father always says. It takes too much of your strength and time.”

“I think that is Sindarin philosophy, dear, not based in the real world. Sometimes genuine loathing can give you strength to carry on when you need to do something difficult.”

“Maedhros and Maglor hated the Enemy, and look what that made them do.”

“They were the exception. Most of us aren’t that – extreme.” Bri had learned her general history from Celeborn, who gave it a distinctly Sindarin slant, but Galadriel was in no mood to explore her cousins’ excesses, afraid to compare all that rage and drive with the way she felt when she thought of Annatar – no, Sauron - and what she knew soul deep had happened to Brim. And she knew Celeborn was right, hatred drained energy, and she needed to be calm and clear headed for what might lie ahead.

“You didn’t hate the Enemy?” Celebrían had developed a habit of tilting her head and looking very hard at her when she asked questions, and Galadriel tried not to be put off balance by it. She wondered if her own parents had found her curiosity about the world beyond Aman equally disconcerting.

“I hated the Enemy. He destroyed our home, killed my grandfather, and drew so many really good people to their deaths – my brothers, my uncle Fingolfin - but I tried to focus what I felt, not give way to blind passion. That... I think that was where our cousins went wrong. It warped their judgement.”

“And in the end they did terrible things, and not just against the Enemy.”

“Yes. As I said, they were a little extreme.” The memories made a jarring contrast to the birdsong and soft voices in this tranquil setting, the rustle of grass and leaves, the quick dart of a squirrel. She was not about to analyse the sack of Menegroth or the slaughter at Sirion for her daughter, definitely not with questions about Ost-in-Edhil so close and unanswered. Casting around for a way to turn the subject, she went back to an earlier question. “Anyhow. You’ve been talking with Haldir? Did you ask him about the history of the wood? I assume he was born here?”

“Oh yes.” Celebrían sat up straight, her face animated. “So was his mother and her family. His father came here with Amdír and met her and they fell in love – it’s very romantic, isn’t it? To come from almost the other side of the world and find your soul mate?”

Her face was young and very earnest and it seemed she had not noticed the similarity to her parents’ story.  Though if she was honest, Galadriel found herself also cringing at the thought of her own parents as young lovers. “Very – romantic, yes. So he’s half Sindar, like Ereinion?”

“I forgot Ereinion was half Sindar,” Celebrían said, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. Which half is it, Nana? Why can I never remember these things?”

“I have no idea,” Galadriel said, restraining a sigh. “You seem to have a blind spot for things like lineage and family connections.  They’re important, child – the dwarves love them, and when two Nandor meet for the first time, swapping lines of descent is a major part of the greeting. People value it, so you must learn to.”

Two chickens leapt squawking over her legs, furious at each other and effectively ending the lecture because Celebrían dissolved into giggles. She was fond of chickens. Galadriel, who wasn’t, clapped her hands at them to shoo them off. Chickens, fed and valued for their eggs, wandered all over the inhabited parts of the forest as though they owned it and had no respect for anyone.  She drew her legs up under her and returned to the question. “Ereinion’s mother, Meril, was close family to Círdan, which is how his parents met in the first place. It gives him an extra link to you through Thingol’s family.”

Celebrían nodded sagely, her eyes wide and serious. Galadriel knew she would have forgotten again by dinner.  “You were telling me about Haldir?” she nudged, before they got too far off track.

A bright smile replaced the serious look. “Oh yes, before the chickens made me forget. He talked about when Amdír first came here…”

“Wasn’t that before he was born?” Galadriel teased and got a dirty look for her trouble.

“His father told him about it,” Celebrían said, the words coming fast, almost tripping over each other. “The Nandor were scared of them to begin with but then they saw that Amdír wasn’t trying to change them or force them to do anything and that he just wanted to help them be safer. And after a time they asked him to be their king because they didn’t have one, so they would have someone to speak for them to the powers of the world if it was ever needed. He’s a very good king, Haldir says. Do you think he’s a good king, Nana?”

It was important for Celebrían to know how someone in authority should carry him or herself to their people, so Galadriel thought a bit about Amdír first. “In his way he’s a good king, yes,” she said eventually. “Not in the way Ereinion is, but then Lindon is a large and very different kind of kingdom with wider needs. For a woodland people who need to be kept safe from the world beyond, I think he does very well. You saw how hard it was for us to get in. What else did Haldir tell you?”

Celebrían shrugged and began delicately shredding the edge of a fallen leaf with her nail. “Just – things? Who people are, who’s bound to who and why, and about the king. And about his family. I met his little brother, he’s still tiny and so pretty – he has big eyes and long white hair. Haldir says it will go yellow like his later.”

“I see.” She watched Celebrían covertly, trying to see if there was more to this than surface, to see if her face or her voice changed at all when she spoke of the young captain, but she was just Celebrían. Not quite ready for a flirtation yet, Galadriel decided with relief.  Clearly she was paying less attention to what Bri did or where she went than she should. They had agreed a perimeter of sorts that would keep her away from the river or any other potential dangers and Galadriel trusted her to obey. Still, they were in a foreign land amongst strangers whose ways were not theirs, and it was as well to take nothing for granted. "Where exactly was I when you were spending all this time with Captain Haldir and meeting his family?"

Celebrían furrowed her brow at her. "I don’t know where you were, Nana. Probably on one of your walks where you like to be on your own? How long are we staying here? It’s – sweet and nice and the trees are very kind too, but it’s not home. And when is Ada joining us? How will he know where to find us?”

Galadriel shook her head. “Child, we’re here for as long as we need to be. We can’t go back to Ost-in-Edhil, they’ll have burned it by now, we have to stay here because people who escaped will come and we must speak for them, else Amdír might not let them cross the tree line. That’s important work and so is helping them once they arrive. Your father will find us when he can. Right now though he’s needed where we couldn’t follow. I think he might be with Elrond – you remember Elrond, don’t you? You met him when you were small, that time we were in Mithlond for Midwinter.”

“He was tall and very, very busy. And he called Erestor ‘Crow’. Nana, is Father all right? Are you sure?” A sunbeam slid between leaves high above them and turned Celebrían’s hair to dazzling mithril but nothing could disguise the concern in her eyes, and there was the tiniest shake in her voice.

Galadriel, who refused to consider anything bad happening to Celeborn, was genuinely startled. “Why in the – why in Arda wouldn’t your father be all right? Of course he is. If he wasn’t I would know. That’s part of being bound – you know those things.”

“And you would know when we spend time with him at star rise, right?”  Celebrían sounded doubtful.

“Bri, I would know the moment it happened,” Galadriel said seriously. She took the girl’s hand, shutting out distractions to concentrate solely on her. “I knew when my brothers died and my uncle. I would know if your father so much as scraped his knee.” An exaggeration, but if anything serious were to happen to Celeborn she knew she would see and feel it, even if the link between them struggled to bridge distance and uncertain times. They should have practised far speech, she told herself yet again.

Something struck her. “The trees are kind, you said. Do they talk to you?”

“Oh no,” Celebrían looked scandalised. “I don’t live here and I’m not important so they wouldn’t really, but they smile inside at me? And they always let me feel welcome and safe. They’re good trees here.”

The casual statement made Galadriel blink. “I had no idea you could hear them. That’s a special gift. Do you know how to speak to them yet?”

Celebrían, who had looked worried for a minute, afraid she might have done something wrong, shook her head and her face cleared. “No, I just think ‘hello’ very loud and hope they hear me. When there’s no one around I say it aloud.”

Galadriel laughed and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Next time I take one of those walks, you must come along. If you can hear them then you’re ready to learn how to greet them. It’s not difficult, it’s all about the courtesy we need to show every living thing in the One’s creation.”

“Even orcs?” Celebrían asked brightly.

An avalanche of ice dropped onto Galadriel and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Then it was gone as though it had never been. She reached out wildly but there was no trail to follow, no clue as to what the premonition, if that was what it was, had meant. She forced herself to nod her head, fight back the inexplicable fear that still gripped her. “Oh, I think we should even be polite to orcs, dear. Say good morning, I hope you slept well, Mr Orc, as you slide your dagger in to the hilt.”

Celebrían giggled and after a moment Galadriel joined in and the fear was gone, wiped away by laughter and leaf-dappled sunlight. It was never quiet in Egladil, as that part of the land between the rivers was called, there were always people talking, chickens clucking, birds singing, things being dropped, hammered, rolled along the ground. Many years away, on a day of clawing, keening horror, every sound, every word, every wood scent would come back to her, clear etched.  “I’ll remember that, Nana. Good manners are everything. Oh look, there’s Midhiel. Can I go and help them lay the clothes out to dry? I want to learn. I’ll be very careful of the water.”

The world was peaceful, birds sang and voices that were almost bird like trilled around them, sometimes bursting into song as the Nandor so often did. She could hear the water beyond the trees and the distant soft singing of the women as they did their washing.  She smiled at Celebrían. “Go. Even a princess should learn how to do laundry.”

\-----0

She slept fitfully that night and kept waking, reaching out with her mind in search of danger. There was none. The wood drowsed beneath the trees and soft strains of song drifted to her from beyond or above. She could hear the trees whispering and the river in the distance and close beside her Celebrían’s peaceful breathing. Still, something kept her from fully relaxing. She stretched out, tried to touch Celeborn, and found nothing there to give her cause for worry. They could not speak mind to mind, but there was no sense of him being in more danger than before or any disquiet.

She woke again when dawn was creeping into the clearing. The air smelt fresh and clean, the birds were making their presence known loudly, and she was tired of the game of chase she had been playing all night with sleep. She got up.

There was water in the basin they kept in the corner and she washed using the soapy leaves collected for that purpose, trying to be quiet. After that, she found her brush, tidied her hair and looped it up neatly on the back of her head.

She had almost finished dressing when Celebrían finally woke up and lay staring at her in confusion. “Are we going somewhere?” she asked sleepily.

Galadriel looked down at her, surprised. “Not that I know of? I just couldn’t sleep any more, nothing else. You can lie in a bit longer if you like. I need to take a walk down to the privy anyhow.” The general privy was a bit of a walk if the need was urgent, but they both preferred it to having a lime hole at the side of the shelter as some did.

“You’ve made your hair pretty and that’s a nice dress,” Celebrían pointed out, sitting up and stretching. “That was why I asked.”

Galadriel looked down at the dress, which was one of the few ‘good’ items she had allowed herself when packing. “It was clean?” she offered. “And I am awfully tired of wearing my hair loose.”

She fastened the belt made to resemble interlinked leaves while she spoke and smoothed the dress down. “I’ll get breakfast for us on my way back, shall I? And then we can decide what to do with the day.”

As it turned out, Celebrían had asked Haldir if someone could teach her archery, so after breakfast she went off with a tall, serious girl who told Galadriel she was training to be a warden like her cousin Haldir. Galadriel looked but could see no familial resemblance: of the two, Haldir was by far the prettier.

Left to her own devices, she took a walk down to the river. Part of her wanted to explore new paths in her ongoing hunt for the well of power she knew lay hidden somewhere in the wood, but not today. The disturbed night had left her restless and without the inner focus such a search required. It wasn’t long before she turned back.

Near the day’s midpoint one of Amdír’s captains came looking for her and found her sitting under a tree helping one of her neighbours fletch arrows, a task she had learned from Celeborn rather than her brothers; they had preferred spear and blade, and the only one who had fancied himself as an archer had been Angrod.

The captain came straight to the point. “Lady, Amdír King asks that you come. There are strangers approaching, a large group, and he says they are Sea People, though more ragged than most. He said you must first vouch for them if we are to let them in?” He said it in the doubtful tone of someone whose usual job was to keep any and all strangers outside of the wood.

Her neighbour looked worried. “The more outsiders we allow in, the more chance the easterners will come looking for them,” he said, voicing what was probably a common concern. “Not the family of a prince of Doriath, of course,” he added hastily. “But – foreigners.”

A vast gulf lay between them that only time could bridge, born of bitter history and vastly different life views. Until then, the Noldor would remain just that, foreigners. Galadriel finished her arrow unhurriedly, tidied away feathers and gut and rose to her feet. “What would you do? Leave them for the orcs who it’s said follow the easterners to hunt after nightfall? What better signal to Sauron’s forces than a successful orc hunt? Amdír gave his word, and I gave mine. Whoever they are, I will make sure they pose no risk to anyone here.”

\-----o

The day was unexpectedly warm and the air hung still and thin. Sunlight dappled the undergrowth and walking through the flickering light made her head feel uneasy but she kept pace with the captain: he would have no cause to complain the Noldor woman had dragged her feet. It was the middle of the afternoon before they reached a clearing where a group of warriors waited, the captain’s patrol she gathered. He pointed at a rope ladder leading up into one of the trees. “We still have as far again to walk, but if you were to climb up there you could see them and decide what we must tell the king.”

Galadriel swallowed a sigh and nodded. She was not fond of ladders or, truth be told, of climbing up into trees, but they would not know it from watching her. And it wasn’t as though she couldn’t climb: she had grown up competing with brothers and male cousins. “You’re not coming with me?”

He shook his head, accepting a water skin from one of his men. “Not necessary, Lady. You can speak with the watchmen up on the flet yourself. They can tell you more than I.”

And it had been a long walk and he was of a mind to relax in the shade. Galadriel hitched her skirts up, tucking the ends into the belt thus leaving her legs bare to the knee and tugged lightly on the ladder, testing its strength. It was smooth, silken, and reassuringly steady.  In another time and place she would have laughed out loud at the expressions on their faces. The women of the wood were too conservative to show that much flesh. “This is good rope,” she said, putting her foot to the first rung and ignoring the stares. “You must tell me its history later.”

The climb seemed to take as long as the walk. She could see the ladder going up and up above her, half hidden amongst the leaves, until it vanished over the side of a platform like the one Amdír had taken her up to so she could see the extent of his wood. She climbed steadily, being careful not to look down. Unlike Celebrían she had no trouble with heights, but the ladder swayed unsettlingly and it seemed wiser to keep her gaze fixed above.

Ready hands were there to help her over the side when she reached the platform, where she was greeted by two young warriors, grey clad with slender bows and full quivers on their backs. They seemed to have been here for a while. There were bedrolls in two corners, a food hamper, clothing folded haphazardly in a second basket, blankets hung over a branch to air. An unfamiliar board game was in progress, with simple pieces in four colours grouped across a painted board.

“They are over there, Lady,” the taller one told her, pointing in what her inbuilt sense told her was a south-easterly direction. “They were moving along the eaves of the wood all morning, but now they seem to have stopped.”

Galadriel leaned lightly against the guide rope strung between branches and looked out and down. The size of the crowd she saw surprised her, there were far more than she had expected after Amdír’s complaint about twos and threes straggling towards his realm.  They were still too far away for her to make out anything that would identify them and she was about to say as much when someone moved into sight, light catching copper hair, and she knew what had kept her from sleep - not fear but anticipation.

She turned to the warriors smiling. “I need to send word to King Amdír to let them in. This group I will gladly vouch for.”

“Our captain can send a signal, Lady,” the lean one with the pale hair said. They all seemed to use the title she had answered to in Ost-in-Edhil and on Balar and Mithlond before. It was a general honorific here, but made her feel strangely at home. “The messengers go faster through the trees than you will on the ground. When you get down, ask him to send me, Orophin, Cyllon’s son. I’m the fastest in our patrol.”

His comrade bristled in outrage. “So he says, Lady, but he’s slow as an overfed hedgehog.  On the other hand, I...”

She left them arguing about who was fastest and scrambled laughing back down, less concerned for either dignity or safety than she had been on the way up. She was nearly half way before she placed the patronym and realised Orophin must be Haldir’s brother.  Galadriel was naturally observant, and it took a great deal to distract her from details like that.

The walk down trails and through seemingly untouched undergrowth took longer than the earlier trek to the guard station, but she moved faster now and the captain was the one who had to hurry to keep pace. They were close to the sound of falling water, perhaps the waterfall she and Celebrían had passed, when she started to hear the voices. They were not loud but the timbre and rise and fall was of Sindarin as spoken by Noldor tongues, crisper and clearer to her ear than the way of the wood folk. Galadriel stopped. “I know you have men in the trees and following us, but let me go ahead and greet them first, reassure them, while you wait to hear from Amdír.”

“The king will send word back in his time,” he replied, and he wrinkled his brow, indecision plain in his light eyes.  “We were told to honour your judgement of the matter, but still, their numbers are so many…”

“And their story must be one to sing at the night fires,” she said, resting her hand briefly on his arm, her eyes holding his. “They have escaped with their lives from a great evil, and it is to you they have turned for shelter. You can safely honour that trust.”

She covered the last distance alone, making hardly a sound as she moved through fallen leaves and clumps of vegetation fighting for a chance of light here under the tree cover. Celeborn said she was as loud as a rutting boar, but admitted that compared to most Noldor she was very quiet. She came out on the edge of where a camp site was being set up for the night. They were gathering wood, deadfall she was relieved to see, and little groups of people sat talking or resting and children played more quietly than was normal in the late sunlight while armed adults stood vigilant, keeping watch.

Stepping out of cover she walked through them, feeling the eyes on her, hearing voices stutter and still. Even the children stopped their play to watch. Someone called a name she knew and she followed the direction heads turned towards.  It was like moving through a dreamscape, not quite real, the destination the only thing that mattered. Grass whispered under her feet, voices came and went, there were faces she recognised, far more that she didn’t, but at that moment her whole being was focused on the one who could tell her who lived, who had not escaped, and what had happened to Brim.

He came walking towards her, clad in leather armour, both jerkin and skirt, with rough-woven pants and a serious looking sword belt. His hair was loose, copper where Maedhros’ had been flame red, and he looked tired and worn, no trace of the usual sardonic humour. They stopped at the same time and looked at one another and then he said, “Tanis?” in a voice flat with disbelief. “I thought you’d made for Lindon…”

She started walking again, forward and into his embrace, and put her arms around him and held him tight. “Gildor,” she breathed against his neck. “I had no idea where you were, I thought – I was afraid you’d run into Sauron’s forces coming up from the south. You’re alive – and you’ve brought all these people with you…” 

And finally she was not alone, she had family to share the load, the decisions and the responsibilities. Tears welled in her eyes that had remained unshed through all the days and nights since she left her last home and said goodbye to her husband and set out with her child on an impossible journey.

“This is the first group,” Gildor said against her hair, holding her firmly. “I left the others about half a day away. I thought if there were too many, Amdír would panic and keep us out. But you’re here already, does that mean…?”

“You can send someone back for them,” she said, sniffing and wiping at her eyes quickly as she stepped back from him. They were not people who hugged much, but the circumstances were exceptional. “Just make it clear that no one disrespects our hosts or cuts live wood and that we obey their water and fire rules and join in the thanks to Yavanna at the evening meal. Those were the things I promised him.”

“I already told them that if anyone raised a hand to a living tree, I’d cut it off.” He sounded bone tired. “I had no idea what to do if he wouldn’t take them in. There are too few left who can manage a sword or any kind of defence. This was my only hope. There’s no path open west to the Ered Luin.”

“They can stay,” she said firmly, unable to stop looking at him, drinking in the reality of Gildor, her cousin, her Aunt Lalwen’s son. “Until the war is over at least, we can all stay.”

\-----0-----

 

 


	9. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's fire and mist and Elrond learns a new skill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why this chapter took so long so I will completely blame the Ardor in August swap.

_The Valley_

“I wish I could see his face,” Elrond muttered.

He and Navinai were tucked into a crevice in the rock opposite their camp, a line of holly bushes shielding them from view while they watched for movement above. This side of the gorge offered no space for shelters but a natural track along the bank led down into the valley, only accessible with difficulty from the other side. So far they had seen an occasional horse or warrior, but the main activity up on the moorland was centred around the great green and gold banner the besieging force had hoisted near the only visible access to their haven. 

Navinai gave the cliff top a hard look, but there was no one in sight. “Whose face?” she asked.

“Their commander,” Elrond said grimly. His legs were cramped and there were stones digging into his back. “When we fought them earlier I almost got to him but I never saw his face. And here he is again, with his soldiers and his orc pack and his magicians or whatever they are.”

“Well, that’s what Celeborn says they are,” Navinai said. “For all we know, they’re travelling entertainers, keeping up morale.”

Elrond was forced to smile in spite of the discomfort. “If that’s the case, they have strange tastes in music. All that chanting and howling – you have to wonder what they’re doing.”

“Not me,” she said with a shiver. “At times you hear screams above the chanting. I don’t need to know what that’s about.”

Navinai, a blooded warrior, wasn’t the only one who talked a little louder when the chanting started up. There was something sinister and unclean about the way the air changed to contain the sound and Elrond, for one, was aware of tendrils of something charged and ugly stretching out towards them. This far they had been easy to block and reject, but they still left a cold unease in their wake. “I think whatever they do is connected to the moon,” he said, trying without success to get comfortable. “I never gave moon phases a thought the first time it happened, but the next was definitely mid cycle. We’ll see in about a week.”

“Do you think they practice human sacrifice?” she asked quietly. “That’s what’s being said, you know.”

Elrond shook his head, watching as two careful forms crossed their sight line. The patrols kept their distance from the edge of the cliff now; there had been a misstep a while ago, leaving a dead and battered body lodged in a tree near the river. “Erestor had a book on eastern beliefs and there was nothing about that, more about self mutilation and ...”

“And?”

“Young priests sometimes emasculate themselves during ceremonies. They ingest mind-altering drugs and then the music whips them up into a frenzy, and...” He made a slicing motion with his hand.

“El, that’s horrible!” 

He grinned at her expression. Navinai was Erestor’s first cousin and Elrond had known her most of his life and loved teasing her. Laughter lit her sensible face to something close to beauty and as her shoulders shook they set her dark curls dancing. “Different cultures, different ways. I wonder what they think of... look!”

She followed where he was pointing, shading her eyes. They were being careful up there, but it was possible to see shapes moving between the trees. “Enough of them to shake the bushes... where are they going?”

Elrond frowned. “Nowhere, just closer to the edge. They’re waiting for something. Get ready to signal.”

Nothing happened for a time, then a cart trundled briefly into sight and vanished into the bushes. The two elves exchanged a look but neither could venture a guess. There were more hints of motion, a brief stillness, then the brush that grew between the trees started to shake. Navinai grabbed his arm. “Look!”

The cart hove into view and stopped, teetering on the edge of the cliff. Smoke poured off it as flames sprouted and licked hungrily upward. It hung shuddering, then jerked forward and began falling. It was too heavy or too well balanced to twist and turn, rather it fell straight down, wheels first, spitting fire and tearing off branches along the way. As it passed, trees began to smoulder and catch. If nothing deflected it, the point of impact would be right beside the main camp.

Navinai needed no instructions. Whistling the urgent signal for ‘look out above’, she was already off down the cliff, Elrond close behind, heading for the rope bridge that would take them back across the Bruinen. They were almost half way when the cart finally struck something solid and shattered, raining fire in all directions. It was followed by an ear-splitting explosion that sent red and orange light blasting through the trees. 

“What in the Pit…?” Navinai shouted without slowing down.

“Black powder, the explosive used in fireworks,” Elrond shouted back. He lacked her perfect balance and clutched the guide rope, trying to ignore the way the rope bridge swayed and tipped under his feet. “They packed it in the bottom, made some kind of a trigger. Come on, we have to get the fire under control.”

When they reached the other bank thick smoke came billowing towards them, carrying glowing cinders within its swirling heart. Eleneth, Celeborn’s second in command, already had a bucket chain organised down to the river with people using any container they could lay hands on, and was sending others in pairs into the smoke with wet sacks and blankets to beat down the spreading flames. Navinai headed to the river to take charge while Elrond looked around for something useful to beat flames or carry water in.

“You should stay here,” Celeborn said from behind him. “Get them ready to move their belongings if we can’t contain it.”

“Someone else can do that,” Elrond snapped. “I’m more use over there, fighting the fire.”

“No, you are not,” the Sinda said calmly. He sounded as immovable as one of the old oaks that grew in the valley. “You are needed here, helping the refugees make ready to cross the river if it becomes necessary. Your presence will give them confidence and they will be more likely to do as they are told. One of the captains is just another person shouting orders, but you are the authority from Lindon.”

Elrond frowned but it made sense. "I need to make arrangements for the wounded as well,” he conceded. “All right. And you?”

“I gave orders that the bridge be made more accessible for civilians carrying property and children. After that – if we can, the trees must be saved. I have people who can work with the river. Perhaps they can help.”

\-----o

There were seven patients in what had become known as Elrond’s Tent: the mother with her newborn babe who he had thought were better off there than in a leaking shelter half open to the elements, the young warrior whose leg he had finally been forced to amputate, and four others who were in various stages of walking wounded. Ninniach, the Nandor wise woman, was redressing a wound when he got there.

“Those who can walk are ready to leave,” she said without looking up. “This boy will be well enough when I’m done too. The wound will not open easily now. The other boy though - he will need to be carried.”

“We might not have to move them,” Elrond told her, stopping to watch what she was doing. Her ways and his were not the same, but he had soon seen that she got results and had the sense not to try and retrain her. His ways were Lindon’s, Noldor based, while hers were of the land and people of the dark years. Neither was wrong.

Ninniach looked up, ancient eyes glinting in her pointed face. “The wind comes this way. They want to burn us out, but the captain says we will go down into the valley?” 

“I’m not happy about that, but if the fire spreads we might have to,” he agreed, dropping down beside the amputee who was awake though tranquil from the precious poppy which Elrond only used where absolutely necessary. When it was gone there would be no more and although he could lead minds into quiet as all the great healers did, he was still dependent upon drugs to make it last effectively. “Nothing to worry about,” he lied to his patient. “A small fire sent down from above. They’ll soon have it under control.”

Her bandaging finished, Ninniach rose in a rustle of brown and blue, her bead necklaces clicking, and went to look out the entrance. There was a lot of shouting out there, and he could hear a child screaming hysterically. The smoke came in as she opened the tent and Elrond tried to wave it away from his patient. The last thing the boy needed was to start coughing. “Close that flap, it’s bad enough in here.”

“They can see down through the trees if they stand on the edge,” she told him calmly. “I gathered herbs up there before they came. They can hide behind the smoke and see how we fight the fire.” 

Elrond was thinking how to get a stretcher across the bridge and it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, the feeling was like a stone dropping into deep water, still and cold. He went over to join her and kept his voice low so the patients couldn’t hear. “How much could you see from up there... ?” 

“Scouts have walked it and the silver lord has asked me this before,” she replied. “Not here where we have our home, no, the angle is too steep, but further down, deep in the trees there are vantages. Also from above the pool they want to use for washing, where the water runs slowly.”

A picture flashed into his mind. “Not the bridge?” he asked, suddenly urgent. “Can they see the bridge?”

She turned slate grey eyes on him. “Not with ease no, it is too close to the waterfall where the rock curves. But if a man came a little down the slope and could find a place to stand, perhaps.”

Strategy lessons came back to him. _How do you outthink your enemy,_ he heard Maedhros ask. He had been fond of throwing out questions without warning, at dinner, on the horse lines, making sure the lessons he gave them had sunk in and become part of their reasoning process. And the answer was this: _think as he thinks, see what he sees, find the weakness he overlooks._ Elrond reached out, tried to be the enemy commander, the faceless easterner with the green and gold flag. 

And then he had it. “Get water,” he told her sharply. “Wet the tent and the ground around. I’ll send someone to help.”

Her people had survived the dark years by knowing when time spent on questions was a luxury. She nodded and left without a word, pausing only to take a bucket with her. Elrond thought of passing the word around, but there was no point in adding to the growing panic. He also suspected there would be arguments and some at least would ignore the order and tell others to do the same. Instead he went in search of Navinai, weaving between anxious groups, telling anyone who tried to speak to him to get their possessions together and stay put.

Navinai was directing a line passing containers back from the river. “Get someone else over here, I need you to do something,” he told her, blinking his eyes against the stinging smoke.

She frowned, but he had been raised by princes and knew how to give orders. She left her post and stepped aside with him, still keeping an eye on the distribution.

“I need you at the bridge,” he told her, taking her arm and pitching his voice low under the noise. “Now, before anyone starts a panic about the flames being too close.”

“What would I do there? They’re strengthening it, adding extra lines so even children can cross…”

Elrond took her by the shoulders and locked eyes with her. “I want you down at the head of the bridge with your sword ready. No one crosses. I don’t care what’s happening here. I’ll send support as soon as I find people I trust to do this properly.”

“No one crosses? But…”

“No one crosses. That’s our only way over the river and they must know it because he’s trying to drive us towards it. It needs only a couple of archers on the side of the cliff, balancing on a ledge or something. Archers with flaming arrows, and the bridge full of families, children…”

She was quick; it only took her a moment. He watched confusion change to understanding as she took in the idea and saw the potential. She straightened away from him, nodded. “No one will cross. But then the flames have to be doused before they reach here. Otherwise we will have no choice. Even a drawn sword won’t force people to risk being burnt alive.”

\---o---

Celeborn didn’t think he was at all crazy. He listened, a wet sack thrown over one shoulder, that mane of silver hair tucked up casually at the base of his neck in a style more favoured by women than men. When Elrond finished, he nodded. “They might have seen someone on the bridge. We grew careless. In the beginning we crossed only at night. We must make another arrangement.”

“Not now though.” They were standing close together in the middle of a crowd, with buckets passing them full on one side and empty on the other. They had to raise their voices even though their heads were close together. “Later we need to cross further along, where the cliff slants more strongly and the trees grow thicker. For now we have to contain the fire.”

“It’s spreading faster than we can hold it. The wind is in their favour.”

“They were waiting for it to turn,” Elrond said bitterly. “They’ve been watching it, sitting with their fire cart at the ready.”

“No point in worrying about how it happened,” Celeborn told him. “We need to make it stop. I have them carrying water and cutting breaks, but the wind is driving it towards us.”

“Earlier you said you had people who could... work with the river?” Elrond had no idea where he was going with this, but some inner knowing insisted. 

Celeborn looked curious but pointed to where two elves sat out of the way, staring at the Bruinen as though oblivious to the commotion around them. “Doron and Garavon,” he said. “The one on the left is Doron.” Elrond nodded his thanks and threaded his way towards them, barely avoiding the next rush of water bearers.

From a distance he thought they were Nandor, but their eyes and the texture of their hair marked them as Sindar, his mother’s people. They did not look up when he joined them, so he sat quietly just behind, legs crossed as theirs were, and made himself relax. The trees clamoured loudest in his mind now that he had stopped being busy, and he forced himself to step away from their distress, let it sit in the corner where things belonged that he could do nothing about. The shouting, the occasional screams went next, as did concern about whether Navinai could stop terrified refugees from forcing their way across the bridge. Instead he sat on impatience and any sense of time, and waited. 

After a while the two elves moved apart, allowing him to sit between them. No word was exchanged; they never looked away from the river.

The first new thing he sensed was wetness, the cool flow of water against skin on a hot day, its taste on a parched tongue. He opened to this feeling, letting it expand into him, finding other images, other memories for it to weave through: coming in from training to cold water with lemon slices floating on the top, one of Maglor’s few indulgences, being out in the rain in the middle of a baking hot summer, or the water caressing his body and swirling his hair the first time he had braved the river below them. 

He stayed with that memory, feeling for the spirit of the Bruinen as it had touched him before. But the river was too far from the fire, too low, with no way of reaching the flames. One of his companions touched his wrist to get his attention and pointed downriver towards the bridge. For a moment he was puzzled and then he realised he was being directed to the waterfall beyond the bridge, where the Bruinen thundered down from the moorland into the gorge between the mountains and into the valley. 

What was a waterfall? Falling water. Strength, power, speed. Weight? He dismissed each as it came into his mind and then abruptly he saw it. Mist.

Now that he knew where to focus, he let the river go on its course and thought himself into the falls instead. He seldom called upon the Maian part of his heritage. There had been no time for his mother to teach him how to manipulate the fabric of the world, in fact Ereinion said it would have been outside her experience as well. Dior had not lived to train her, so like her sons she would have been alone with a sense of immense power and just enough wisdom to avoid tapping into it blindly. Even her shape-changing the night Sirion burned, his cousin had said, bore the signs of desperation, the urge for life being stronger than fear or habit. 

Ereinion had known her most of her life, so he probably knew what he was talking about. Although, young as he was when the world changed, Elrond remembered his mother had been afraid of a great many unlikely things.

The Bruinen thundered into the hollow below the falls, carved into the rock over the ages, and as it fell and struck it threw off clouds of icy mist. When the sun shone on it the air was studded with rainbows, which had given the place its Silvan name, Valley of Rainbows. He felt rather than saw the mist, let it wrap around him, let it intertwine with the warmth of his fëa. On either side of him he could feel two other minds striving for the same oneness he was reaching for and suddenly, blindingly, knew he was about to do what they could not: he could make the final leap and be one with the mist.

The world faded, even the grass beneath him felt insubstantial. Somehow he was in two places at once, sitting above the river but also clinging close to the edge of the howling water, stretching and arching in the sunlight, smiling at the rainbows glittering around him. Someone nudged him before he could fall too deep into the experience and lose himself, and he remembered why he was there. 

Holding onto the mist with part of his awareness he reached out to them with his mind and showed them the path, using abilities he had never before known he could access. And then one became three and between them they had the power to bring the mist in towards them, past them, wrapping the camp in cool droplets before going on and spreading it over the crying trees, soothing them as the fires sputtered, flickered, and slowly died.

\-----0

“My wife would have enjoyed that,” Celeborn said conversationally, dropping down beside him at the small cooking fire outside the healing tent. The ground was still wet but the flames flickered tamely and a pot of tea stood on a flat stone, drawing. 

Elrond sat with a blanket thrown round his shoulders, lost in thought. He looked over, puzzled. “Galadriel?” Galadriel’s sometimes dark humour went right past him, although Ereinion seemed to like it. He supposed he was too serious.

“She is always happy to watch skilled work done well, especially if it involves unusual achievements like blanketing a camp with mist.”

“Ah. Well if she’d been here I’ve no doubt she’d have done it better and faster.” He had not consciously intended sarcasm, but as the words came out he could hear the bite. The Lady was a byword in Noldor circles for her more esoteric gifts. He made a tired gesture. “I’m sorry, it’s left me feeling a bit like I was just run over by a charging boar… It’s not something I’ve had any formal training in. Ninniach said I needed tea, some concoction of hers, no idea what’s in it...”

Celeborn nodded equably. “Yes, Garavon thought you would be tired. All their energy was focused through you. He said today put them in mind of the Nightingale. That would be Lúthien,” he added, seeing Elrond puzzle at the name.

“I’m like…? Well at least I didn’t dance. My singing’s nothing extraordinary either.” He tried to laugh at the image it conjured, of him dancing for Beren or entrancing the Dark Lord with song, but it was forced. Surprisingly, Celeborn laughed with him.

“She was Melian’s daughter and carried her share of the Great Mother’s power, which is what they felt in you. It would have been tempting fate to say you reminded them of the Queen of Doriath herself of course, even at this distance in time.”

Elrond looked into the fire. He could feel the valley around him almost like a living entity, had done ever since he separated from the mist and saw the sun still shone through the fog that shrouded their part of the ravine. He could hear the river talking to itself, the trees making settling noises to one another as they rooted deeper, drew up more moisture. These things were more real to him than the prosaic sounds of voices and movement, the stench of damp, scorched earth. He pushed the strangeness back and concentrated on the fire and on Celeborn instead. “I - never learned how to do whatever it was we just did,” he said finally. “What little my mother knew she took with her, because we were too young to learn. I’ve always seen flashes of the future, but this... I had no idea I could do this.”

Celeborn gave him a placid look. “It is what it is. It’s as well not to be afraid of it, but it is also best not to tweak its tail without need. Even after all this time and all her training, Galadriel still startles herself. Best be prepared for that, then it will have less impact when it happens.”

“You’re saying she might also find out she can raise mist and not have realised it before?”

Celeborn seemed about to say something, then shrugged and shook his head. “Perhaps. I have seen her use mist as a cloak, but not on this scale. I think her Sight unsettles her at times, and some experiments are more successful than she expects.” The smile was reminiscent. 

“So just let it go and not give it a thought until the next strange thing happens? And not wonder why I never knew this about myself before?”

“I might be able to explain the why,” Celeborn suggested. Elrond looked up from the fire, raised an eyebrow. “You are in a strange place dealing with unique circumstances. It would bring out sides of yourself you had no need to confront in Lindon and would not have embraced before. This valley is open to such a thing. The trees are well disposed towards you and the land will follow. The river you have already touched.” 

Elrond watched the camp for a while. Everyone seemed to have calmed down. Other cooking fires were springing up and shelters were being reinforced to offer protection from the mist that had not yet wholly dissipated. The warriors were doing the main work there, those not keeping extra watch on potential routes down the cliff or exploring the river for a place narrow enough to cross but invisible from above. It all looked very ordinary, so ordinary that the way his skin felt, sensitive and exposed, seemed at odds. He did not feel ordinary. 

Celeborn nodded to the teapot. “Have some tea, let your fëa find its balance,” he suggested. “Then perhaps a walk to clear your mind?”

“A walk? Perhaps, yes. Tea first though. I thought of wine, but…”

“Wine is not for such times in my experience,” Celeborn agreed in the tone of one who knows. “Drink tea and then go and walk among the trees. They are the heart of this place. That is where you start.”

“Start what?” Elrond swirled the teapot and sniffed the contents. It seemed ready.

“Getting in tune with your valley, of course.” There was a hint of laughter in Celeborn’s voice. “You found it, you settled it, and you protected it. Now you must start learning to hear its voice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ninniach = Rainbow


	10. Westward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week in, Lindir says more than he meant to and Erestor is doing his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can wait till I find a decent chapter heading and summary or I can post. So I'm closing my eyes and posting while it's still 2015!

Erestor had not yet changed his mind about boats, but at least the sea was quiet for once, the deck almost steady under his feet. Away from the light the sky was clear and studded with brilliant stars; there was no moon yet, it would rise later. They were near the middle of the second watch so there were still voices talking softly above the sound of the waves and although the ship with all its creaking and groans sounded like it might fall apart at any moment, everything seemed to be going along as it should. 

His home on this dubious vessel was the small cabin he shared with Arvarad and Lindir, little more than a covered frame with a leather curtain for a door and a panelled division between their quarters and those shared by the two nobles’ sons, Faelon and Abrazîr. He had planned an early night but that was before a noisy game of chance started up next door. Neither reading nor sleep were possible after that so he went back out on deck instead, in search of company. He could have asked to join the game, it would certainly have passed the time, but he had spoken enough Adûnaic for one day.

The world was a softer place after dark. During the day the water threw back shards of sunlight and his eyes never felt quite comfortable, but at night the deck was lit fore and aft by lanterns hanging from iron holders, bathing it and the captain’s cabin on the upper level in a golden glow. He could make out a figure in the steersman’s chair but the angle was awkward and he wasn’t sure if it was Captain Gimilkhâd or his deputy. A young boy sat up against the ladder, one of the two who ran errands and took turns with the hourglass that timed the watches: he was upright, but Erestor suspected he was in fact asleep.

Arvarad was nowhere in sight, but Lindir had found a dry spot and sat with his back against a battered storage chest, his lyre resting across his thighs. Erestor made his way over, stepping lightly around ropes and other hazards and sank down next to him, drawing his knees up and tidying the folds of his coat. He made a point of being properly dressed at all times, even if the clothes itched in the heat and were a pain to keep clean. He was Gil-galad’s envoy and appearances were everything.

“I saw you up in the rigging earlier,” he said. “You realise of course you could break your neck and leave us without any cultural exchange to offer? We’d have to recite poetry or something.”

“Yes, there had to be a reason for the concern.” Lindir tilted his head back and smiled at the stars. “Not oh Lindir, you must not climb the rigging, you could be hurt and I would be devastated, no.”

“It takes a lot to devastate me, Songbird,” Erestor told him. “Put out, yes. I would be put out.”

“You should have come up with me. You like doing crazy things and the view was spectacular.”

Erestor shrugged and tried not to feel resentful. “I’m the envoy, remember? Diplomatic representative of the High King of the Elves. I can hardly go climbing up ropes and generally having a good time, it lacks elegance. Especially in formal clothes. Arvarad, perhaps.”

This got Lindir laughing. “I can just see him – all black robes and scrawny legs. Yes, I know you have to live up to your rank, though it sounds like a pain in the neck. I on the other hand am a bard, which means I can do as I like – well, within reason…”

“So long as it doesn’t embarrass Lindon, yes. You’ve been sneaking a look at Arvarad’s legs?”

“Sharing dressing space makes it hard not to. Sorry, was that bit about embarrassing Lindon a discreet hint?”

Erestor snapped his fingers at him good humouredly. “I don’t deal in discreet hints, they’re a waste of energy. If I wanted you to know something, I’d tell you in small, clear words.”

“Because I need small words, yes,” Lindir agreed. “If I was bright I wouldn’t be out here on the sea on this strange ship, heading for a place of legend that is a bit too close to Elvenhome for my comfort.”

“The boat takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” Erestor said, serious now. “I still feel too high above the water. And I miss rope-sewn planks and protective runes. Our ships are in tune with the ocean while this Dolphin doesn’t work with the waves, she charges through them like a wild boar.” He glanced round to make sure none of the small crew was close enough to overhear him criticise Númenórean ship design. “And I don’t see the point in more than one mast, no matter how many times Arvarad explains it to me. Why are you worried about being close to Aman? Scared they’ll hear your brilliant voice and come drag you home?”

“It’s not my home,” Lindir said pensively. “I know we’re meant to call it that and be happy it’s there, but it’s never appealed to me. It sounds like a cage. And if you think this is bad, you need to ride in one of the Haradrim longships. You can reach over the side and touch the waves, and you’re drenched most of the time, but damn they’re fast!”

“This is pretty fast too,” Erestor conceded. “Nothing like the designs they had when they followed Eärendil west either. I thought they’d have learned from the folks on Tol Eressëa, but this seems all their own invention.”

“So they say. And I understand wanting to do it your way. Aldarion is supposed to have learned ship building from Círdan, but there’s not much of that on show. I don’t know about before, I remember something about their sails changing, that’s all. Square mainsail to lateen.” He stopped when he caught Erestor staring at him. “What? My grandfather worked in the Forlond docks before he sailed.”

Erestor frowned at him. “Is that where you learned about ships? You keep coming out with things like – lateen sails? – and I wonder where you get it from.”

Lindir gave him the side of his eye. “I’ve been on a ship or two in my life,” he said. “And seen a good many more. But I listened when the old man talked too. I was sorry when he took the final voyage. He wasn’t keen but my grandmother wanted to go back, so...”

There had been a constant western migration since the Ban was lifted, and the choice to stay or leave formed a common division between families and friends. Few were untouched, including Erestor’s own sister whose husband's family were trying to persuade them to sail. It was a sensitive topic, so rather than express an opinion he went back to Númenórean invention. “I think Aldarion lived almost a thousand sun years ago, didn’t he? Ideas mutate, change over the generations. Sometimes I think we’ll be surpassed by the Second Born in the end because we’re in no rush, we know the question will still be here in fifty years and we can solve it then.”

“Does that mean we’re more thorough then?”

“Depends – do you think examining a problem from all angles is better than acting on instinct?”

Lindir grinned at him. “Probably, though it’s not a lesson I’ve learned yet. There’s less pressure though if you can spend fifty years on a simple problem.”

“Annatar might not have got as far as he did if some people thought a bit faster,” Erestor said. “And, Celebrimbor might have seen he couldn’t hold onto Eregion alone and sent for help.” He had not known Celebrimbor well, but hearing the means of his death had chilled him, the horror more real than most of what had been going on around him in Mithlond. He could picture Annatar savouring the terror, making it last...

“That’s a good example of not thinking it through,” Lindir agreed, moving the lyre into a playing position and trying a few cords. “Fëanor’s grandson, doing it his way.”

Erestor drew a steadying breath, nodded. “True enough. Did I disturb you? Were you composing a song?” Like most laymen, he had no idea how a musician’s creative process worked.

Lindir shook his head. “No, did you need something? I’m just messing around with sounds.” To demonstrate he played a few runs, fingers flying over the strings. Heads turned and Erestor saw a couple of sailors prop themselves up on an elbow to listen. They slept on deck wherever they could find cover, wrapped in the same padded bags the elves had been given for warmth at night. Their luggage, including the bulk of Erestor’s vast wardrobe, was stored below, leaving them with just a small chest between them of things they needed for the voyage. The sailors, he had discovered, kept their valuables in their sleeping bags. 

The boat dipped and Erestor put a hand flat on the deck to balance himself. “No, I didn’t need anything, just company. Our neighbours are playing some kind of game and I had to get away from the noise.” 

Lindir shook his head. “You’d think they’d have quietened down by now, wouldn’t you? It’s been over a week.” He drew something that sounded suspiciously like laughter from the strings as he spoke.

Erestor laughed too. “Oh, they’re all right, just very young. Abrazîr strikes me as the type to hold a grudge to the end of time though. Probably very good on a quest.”

“He’s fed up because they were meant to have separate cabins, but then we came aboard. I’d be fed up too, Faelon talks in his sleep. Still, that’s life. The Elven King’s Envoy doesn’t complain about sharing with a trade advisor and a mere minstrel.”

Erestor smiled, leaning closer so their shoulders almost touched. “You just haven’t heard the Elven King’s Envoy complaining, that’s all. Have to share that tiny space with someone who’s all legs and another who’s all hair and has these bags – lute here, harp there, fiddle over there...”

“I wasn’t putting them in the hold.” Lindir had been determined to the point of rudeness on the subject, and Erestor had found it easier to back him up, even at the risk of it degenerating into a serious row with the captain. It had taken Arvarad to sort it out in the end, insisting that these were the tools of Lindir’s trade and in their way irreplaceable. 

“I think they’re waiting for a song,” Erestor said, gesturing around the deck before Lindir could rehash the entire argument. He could see Arvarad now, leaving the navigation hut beside Gimilkhâd’s cabin and pause to take a few deep breaths. Erestor knew from experience that it was close in there and thick with lamp fumes.

Lindir let the strings talk to him, staring out into the dark and frowning as he played little runs and waited for inspiration to strike. “We make them nervous, you know,” he said, his voice almost lost in the sea sounds all around them. “No one I’ve talked with has ever seen an elf. They’re from the eastern side of the island and elves come mainly to the west, the part nearest Tol Eressëa. We’re not quite real to them, like beings out of old stories their grandmothers tell. Stopping at Mithlond like Aldarion was an adventure, but I’m not sure they’re comfortable having us on board. I didn’t need Faelon to tell me sailors are a superstitious lot...”

“If I earned my way by sailing on a collection of nailed together planks with two masts and at least five sails to lose to the north wind, I’d be superstitious too.” Arvarad dropped down next to Erestor.

Lindir glared at him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you two. Just because their way’s not ours doesn’t make it wrong. Our ships are built differently, our sails follow another concept, but when you think of it, they got some basic ideas from us and built on them – the triangular sails alongside the old square sail, a rudder instead of a side oar – and they don’t have magic woven into the fibre of the ship so they have to work harder and their risk is higher. Good enough reason to sacrifice to the gods, honour Lady Uinen, and never allow a fair haired woman to set foot on board.”

“Which excludes our own dear Lady Galadriel, should she ever feel the urge,” Arvarad said cheerfully. “And no, difference doesn’t make something right or wrong. But if I had as little to rely on as they do, I’m not sure anything would persuade me to go to sea.”

“It’s a calling, or so I’ve heard,” Lindir told him. “Like music, only more dangerous.”

“Music can as be dangerous,” Erestor reminded him drily. “Some music. On some roads.”

Lindir gave him an unreadable look. “Some music, some roads, yes. Not this road though. I’m not sure of the odds on soothing potentially savage seas so how about a love song? Think that’ll go down?”

“To bridge the cultural gap between us, you mean?” Erestor asked, smiling slightly. “Remind us that we all share the pain of loving and losing, the disbelief at loving and winning. Go ahead. Give us something to weep over.”

“Love isn’t always about losing, Erestor,” Lindir said sternly. “Sometimes it’s more about having to try very hard for a very long time. I think I have one of those. I can even sing it from the heart.”

Arvarad laughed. Erestor raised an eyebrow and Lindir smiled, all innocence. “What? I’ve had a chequered love life. They always say artists should first look to experience. Ask Cirithon, Mithlond’s esteemed Chief of Minstrels. He was scathing about my ode to the sky lights on the northern snows. Nothing I say or do will convince him I’ve been there and seen them for myself. Sing about springtime in the woods, young man, he says. Something you know. Reaching for something beyond your knowledge is arrogance.”

Erestor was intrigued. “You’ve really been there? You never told me. And why should you know more about spring in the woods than you do about the north lands?”

“Never came up. I’ve been lots of places. And of course I should know all about woodland life. Cirithon is an eternal snob. Anyone not full blood Noldor must have lived wild in a forest at some point. Some people it’s not worth arguing with.”

Arvarad was frowning. “But not challenging bigotry is how stereotypes get perpetuated. If you don’t show someone they’re wrong...”

Lindir shrugged, shook back his hair. “Probably, but I don’t have energy for it. I spend enough of it on defending my song choices and being open about liking pretty boys as much as pretty girls.”

The moon was rising, kissing the sea with silver. Erestor watched the flap of a sail signify a change in wind direction and hid his thoughts behind his diplomat’s mask. He hadn’t been sure about Lindir and women, and was annoyed to find he was curious. There was no reason for that; it wasn’t as though he planned on getting involved. The other business though, Cirithon ’s prejudice - that was something else entirely.

\-----0 

Lindir drifted between humour, romance and quiet melancholy, unable to settle on a mood. Arvarad sat with him for a while but finally said he wanted to learn how they took directional readings at night, leaving him alone with the sea and the sharp air and bright stars. The night finally spoke to him, and as it grew later he sang for himself rather than to please an audience, soft songs about ordinary things: there was not a single woodland air among them. 

Some time after the change of the midpoint watch he sought the bedroll that passed for his bed, entering the cabin quietly; Arvarad had not returned, but Erestor was already asleep. Lindir put the lyre away in its oilcloth wrapping, always careful to keep everything protected and dry, then took off his outer clothing and folded it neatly on top of the chest that held their possessions. 

He left the door open while he was busy, but now, after shaking out his sleeping bag and finding his comb, he closed it, claiming back the only modicum of privacy the close confines of shipboard life allowed. The cabin at once felt smaller, more intimate, the only light coming through a narrow slit of a window that looked out to sea. He got to work with the comb, easing the worst of the tangles out of his salt-roughened hair before braiding it back for the night. Finally he lay down.

“Cirithon needs to watch himself,” Erestor said, wide awake. Lindir froze a moment, startled, and forced down a flutter of panic that was pure habit. “He can be as snobbish about pure Noldor ancestry as he likes in private, but publicly he should remember the king’s mother was Sindarin and so is his foster father. Pure Noldor blood never struck me as saying much about a person anyhow. My father walked across the Ice and my mother was born here the year after her parents arrived, but I’m hardly respectable.”

“You have very well placed friends for someone who’s not respectable,” Lindir stalled while he frantically tried to reconstruct what he had said earlier about the Chief.

Erestor made a dismissive sound. “I don’t have respectability, I have access,” he responded. “An entirely different thing. Anyhow, it’s a nonsense and people who think their Aman bloodline makes them better irritate the life out of me.” He turned over, propped himself up. “Where did your family come from originally? Doriath?”

Lindir drew in a breath, and then another. “Somewhere within the Seven Rivers,” he said. “My mother’s side, anyhow. You’d not hear that from my father. His father came over from Aman with Fingolfin, and that’s all the family background that gets mentioned. He’s the one who sailed West. I never knew my mother’s father, he died in the War.” He put the comb down and turned to face Erestor, close and yet indistinct in the deeper shadow. “And oh yes, we’re tied to the heartbeat of Arda itself, of course, divided into tribes for no more reason than to keep track of who came from where and if their skills should run to smithcraft or sailing. Or finding their way in the wood. Nothing bigoted about that, just keeping things neat and orderly.” He tried to bite down on the bitterness but it had been a long time growing.

Erestor sat up, all black hair and glitter of eyes in the half light. “The catalogue, yes. Like breeds of horses. The Noldor are colonising warriors with uncommon skill for metals - except for me, I have no talent in that direction. The Sindar are introspective nature lovers, the Telerin happily live a peaceful life on the shore catching fish and singing sea songs. And the Nandor,” he waved a hand, “Those are the losers who hid from the Vala and went their own way, defined by whether their families followed Denethor or were just wild Avari, wandering the forests and valleys, owing allegiance only to their tribe. Such an offensive load of rubbish.”

He could talk like that, he was one of Lindon’s elite, Noldor to the core. “Like Badger?” Lindir regretted the words as soon as he’d said them.

Erestor’s eyes widened, then he snorted. “Like Badger, yes. Exactly like Badger. Really, when you get down to it your mother’s people were in Lindon before any of us. Land of singers - it fits. Why would your father not talk about that? Surely he can’t be such a bigot?” 

Lindir laughed at the bluntness, though the laughter, like the memories, was without humour. “Can’t he? My siblings and I were raised to do nothing that would hint at our other, less desirable bloodline, or embarrass him or get people to look too hard at us unless it was for something intrinsically Noldor...”

“That left you a lot of leeway really,” Erestor said. “Historically we’re not very nice people. It explains why he wasn’t impressed with you singing for the half Sinda king or playing for Galadriel with her Sindarin husband. That all makes sense now.” 

Lindir was surprised by the casual empathy, and even more so that Erestor actually reached out and placed a hand on his wrist – Erestor, who seldom touched anyone. “This all went right past me. If I thought of it at all, I supposed you were Noldor, but I assumed that of anyone in Ost-in-Edhil, it was a very Noldorin city. I mean unless you were a dwarf... And you have the accent right, the clipped sounds, the little hints of Quenya. I’m usually good with accents.” 

“That’s how he talks,” Lindir shrugged. “We all picked it up. He has a thing about talking correctly. Not singing though, singing is letting the side down.”

“Maglor sang, and he was a prince,” Erestor offered. 

Lindir stared at him. “Well, we all know how that turned out.”

Erestor said, quite gently, “You have such skill the king personally chose you to go to Númenor as part of an embassy to beg for aid. There were any number of pure-blood Noldor who weren’t even considered for this, including a few Gil’s known all his life.”

Lindir thought a moment and shrugged. “I suppose it might be grudgingly acceptable. Especially as the king thought he was sending someone without a drop of wild blood in his veins.”

“Gil doesn’t care what kind of blood you have as long as you get the job done that he set you,” Erestor said. “He wouldn’t give a damn either way and he’ll be put out to find Cirithon thinks Nandor blood worthy of snide comments.”

“Gods, you’ll not say anything. Ery...” Lindir shot up, horrified, hardly noticing when he pulled his arm away from Erestor’s light touch.

“I don’t see why not,” Erestor was not in the least concerned. “He’s an irritating old prude with a stick up his arse. Can’t do much harm to see him dance a bit. Though yes, that would be a tad uncomfortable.”

“You are not to say anything,” Lindir reached across urgently and grabbed Erestor’s arm. He felt vaguely sick, and angry at himself for the careless comment. Careers had been broken by far less. “He’ll know it came from me and he’ll make my life miserable. I still have to go back and work under him, remember.”

Erestor lay back and Lindir sensed the grin even if he couldn’t see it. “You sound like me – you’re not to say anything, I’ll be in trouble for it.”

Lindir crossed the short distance between them in two movements and leaned over, hands on Erestor’s shoulders, closing on muscle and bone and the suggestion of strength. the untidy braid he had just worked brushing Erestor’s face. “Not one word! I respected you when you asked me to be quiet about your – mistakes.” He wanted to shake him.

“Well, I owned up in the end, for all the good it did me,” Erestor said, a little too casual, a little too bright. 

Lindir eased his grip, diverted. “It couldn’t have been too bad,” he said more carefully. “You’re here, after all. That says a lot.”

“It says that he’s known me a long time and decided I was the best person for the job, but it’s an intellectual assessment, if that makes sense? In the head, not the heart. I – damaged a very old friendship.”

“Badger or the other?” Lindir sat back on his heels, trying to read Erestor’s expression in the gloom. 

“He understood. About Badger... he said he’d rather not know officially. I was under orders from the Lady so unless she decides to have me banished, it’s nothing to do with him. But – it changes things. He can’t afford to be close to that, to the person responsible for that death...” The words came out level, toneless. “The other thing --- he asked a lot of questions. He accepted I hadn’t known, but it wasn’t comfortable. He took it better than I would in the end – it still feels like a betrayal.”

“No it wasn’t,” Lindir said firmly. “It was a blunder, not a betrayal. A bad mistake but not deliberate, not wilful.” 

It was never quiet at sea, but right then the cabin felt small, shut away from the world. Perhaps that made the words easier to bring together. “My whole life feels like a mistake some days,” Erestor said in a low voice. “Even this. Especially this. I have to convince the queen of a nation I know almost nothing about to send help against an enemy she can’t even begin to imagine... Lin, I can’t do this.”

Without stopping to think Lindir reached down, touched Erestor’s face, brushing his thumb along the smooth skin over his cheekbone. Following instinct he leaned in, their lips so close he could feel Erestor breathing. All the light in the cabin seemed concentrated in the shadowed eyes that stared up at him. The rest of the world was suddenly very far away.

“What on earth are you doing?” Erestor’s tone was what he might have used on someone serving meat before soup or substituting a good cloak for a horse blanket. He was statue-still in a way that said more about tension than any amount of trembling could.

Reality set in. Lindir drew back at once; it was Erestor and that meant there was more involved than concern about the neighbours – that fey, skittish response to intimacy, the barely concealed unease, had their roots back in Ost-in-Edhil. He forced a light laugh. “That was meant to be a friendly peck, a way of saying I’m sorry you’re unhappy. Not a proposition. Still, not a good idea. “

“No,” Erestor said with surprising equanimity, moving back though not far. “It wasn’t. Nothing personal, just – well, look where we are for a start.”

“Yes, Arvarad still has to come back, plus our neighbours might wake up. I know. But seriously, it was only a kiss, well almost - nothing more energetic. I’m pretty clear that’s not a road you’re keen to travel down right now. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Erestor frowned over it. “I’m – if I’m honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more right now, no. My body doesn’t always agree, but listening to it’s not a mistake I’ll make again in a hurry. I just – it’s hard to connect right now. I don’t know how to explain this, just --- I can’t deal with that too.”

Unsurprised, Lindir shrugged, nodded. “If something isn’t possible, then it’s not. I’m not a child. Just a pity you’re like a nest of fire ants, the way they get under the skin and sting and burn.” He made vague brushing gestures along his arms to illustrate.

“They do that? Really?” Erestor palpably relaxed, feigning fascination with wide eyes. “I’m not sold on the simile. I’d have thought something with moonlight and seduction in it...”

“You want me to compare you to Lúthien? I can do that. I’m a bard. You both have black hair.”

Erestor breathed a laugh, then sat up and placed a hand on Lindir’s shoulder. He moved closer till their foreheads almost touched, his version of an apology. They stayed like that a while, then finally Erestor said, “You’re good, but you’re not that good. I thought the world was shaking but it’s the boat. The sea’s getting rough.”

“See what you’ve done?” Lindir said. “You’ve gone and upset Lord Ossë. I’m surprised he’s not rapping on the side to ask why we stopped.”

“Shh.” Erestor tried and failed to sound serious. “If they catch you being disrespectful while we’re at sea they’re likely to throw us both overboard, and where would Lindon be then?”

Lindir shook his head and sat back. He was only half joking when he said, “There’s a reason the king sent three of us. I guess is that happened, they’d be finding out just how good Arvarad really is.”

Erestor laughed, suddenly relaxed. “Oh he’s good, I’m just not sure any of us is that good alone. Open the door, let some air in. I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a whale in here. Leave it open till Arvarad comes to bed.”

Lindir got up and went back to the door, careful where he put his feet – there was always something lying around in the cabin due to lack of space. “Shall we find a nice, safe subject to talk about?” he asked over his shoulder.

Erestor sounded amused. “Safe – I suppose that disqualifies pretty girls and pretty boys and how they’ve fitted into your life?”

Lindir fastened the leather door open, breathed in cold salt air, and went back to his bed roll. Erestor was remaking his pillow – clothing wrapped in a spare cloak – and made a show of not looking at him. “You want to know about my sex life?” Lindir asked, flopping down.

Pillow organised, Erestor lay down and got comfortable, curled on his side. “Not the intimate details, thanks all the same,” he said. “But earlier you mentioned liking both, and I’ve sometimes wondered how that was – I’m not that flexible. So - girls you have known. And boys. And why. You must have all sorts of interesting stories. I’ve shared my most hair raising with you, and now it’s your turn. Entertain me. ”

\-----0-----

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Red Lasbelin


End file.
